Be Still My Beating Heart
by Darkfangz13
Summary: Lestrade was just bored and lonely, Moriarty just wanted someone to keep an eye on Sherlock for him, it was just a relation of convenience. Neither could've predicted actually falling in love.
1. Chapter 1

Be Still My Beating Heart

Chapter One

DI Lestrade's never met the man, never seen him, never even heard about him before the bombings. In Lestrade's mind, he's like a ghost, an idea, the closest thing to physical exsistance is the staccato voice of a victimized mouthpiece from a mobile phone. That, and a name that nobody says.

Jim Moriarty.

Jim Moriarty's also never met DI Lestrade despite the many times he's seen him in the newspapers or through the pictures Sebastian Moran's taken for him. The madman doesn't care much. After all, who is DI Lestrade but a helpless and dumb observer in comparison to Sherlock's brilliance?

But, he decided, it would be quite impolite to rudely ignore the man. And besides, an innocuous man like Lestrade constantly shadowing Sherlock on his cases, he could be a helpful informant. "Sebastian!" he called out in his eerily sing-song voice. "I'm going out to find new pawns for Sherlock and my game, will you come with?"

Sebastian Moran, who was in the meditative process of cleaning his sniper rifle, merely looked up at him quietly and nodded. "Brilliant!" Moriarty clapped his hands like a gleeful child. "Let's go meet this DI Lestrade!"

* * *

><p>DI Lestrade, Moriarty thinks, is very much like a king in the New Scotland Yard with his subordinates as his loyal subjects. Sebastian handed him a pair of binoculars and pointed vaguely at a window three storeys, or so, up. Moriarty held the binoculars up to his face and could almost barely make out a stocky sillouhette against the blinds.<p>

"You won't have many chances of meeting him." Sebastian said slowly. "He gets in early and leaves late."

Moriarty regarded his pet with such an incredulous look at being told that he could not do something that the man began to feel pinpricks of heat creeping into his cheeks. "Oh, Sebastian." Moriarty stroked his fingers through Sebastian's hair like an affectionate petting. "You of all people should know that I am above such mundane problems."

Moriarty turned away swiftly and his fingers flew over the keyboard of the laptop Sebastian brought him and the shadow on the blinds shifted with a start. Sebastian narrowed his eyes a little at the dark form. Lestrade's shoulders were squared and his stance tense, whatever Moriarty did it's got the DI on-guard.

Moriarty smiled and continued tapping away at his keyboard rhythmically. "He'll come soon." he cooed at Sebastian as he moved away. "Get the car." Sebastian blinked silently but complied.

* * *

><p><em>Hello, sexy. Poisonous gas to be released at 221b Baker Street in ten minutes. Can you get there in time? -M<em> Lestrade blinked for a moment, stunned, before he tried both Sherlock's and John's phones but something was blocking the signal. He dropped his phone into his pocket and decided that if Moriarty could tamper with his phone's signal, he probably could tamper with all the phones in the area. It would just be quicker to get to Baker Street himself.

If this was the same Moriarty from the bombing case, he knew to hurry before the 999 calls began thundering in. Maybe, if it was some time bomb, Sherlock could disarm it before anything dangerous happened.

He wondered if he should send an ambulance ahead just in case.

He dashed out to the car park to where his vehicle was and fished around in his coat pocket for his key. He barely heard the car pull up behind him, but he certainly couldn't ignore being grabbed by the back of his collar and shoved into the backseat of said vehicle.

He was silent for a moment or two, too shocked to say or do anything but sit very still in the back of the car as the vehicle shifted under him and pulled off into the late evening traffic. "Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded as soon as the shock wore off.

"We'll leave that up to your imagination." The youngish man lounging in the rider's seat crooned, looking at him through the rear-view mirror.

The man smiled with a crooked sort of charm but his eyes were dark and guarded like Mycroft Holmes's. _Like a predator waiting for the opportune moment to strike_... Lestrade felt a shiver run down his spine but didn't show it. "I've been told that I haven't much one to begin with." he responded gruffly.

"Oh, Sherlock's influence, most likely." the man in the front scoffed as he propped his feet up on the dashboard and picked delicately at his fingernails.

Lestrade didn't respond. "What do you want?" he asked again.

"Such an impatient detective! Don't worry, we've got all night!" the man contorted his body to turn and look at Lestrade. "Jim Moriarty. Hi~!" Moriarty grinned at him very toothily in a way that was not meant to be comforting. "Sorry about the text. Sherlock and his pet are alright, I just needed something to get your attention."

Well, if that was the way he wanted to play it... Lestrade leaned back into his seat comfortably and crossed his legs at the knees. "Alright, DI Lestrade, how do you do." he introduced himself with a purposefully fake smile.

Moriarty's eyebrows twitched ever so slightly together. All the other pawns he met always responded with looks of fear and demanded to be released immediately. Nobody ever merely introduced themselves and grinned at him, and nobody ever made themselves comfortable in his car either!

But before he could respond, Lestrade was speaking again. "You've got me at a disadvantage though, Mister Moriarty. Why are you kidnapping me?" Funny, Lestrade seemed genuinely curious more than worried.

"For a chat, so to speak." Moriarty smiled back, reminding himself that DI Lestrade was a stupid and dull pawn... he just caught Moriarty off-guard for a moment there.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and his lip curled upward. "Very well, Mister Moriarty, chat away."

Moriarty was silent for a moment, letting the DI hang in suspense. "You seem very well acquainted with Sherlock Holmes." he said finally.

Lestrade threw his arms up and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Seriously? You kidnap me, want a chat and, let me guess, you want me to spy on Sherlock for you? You're no better than Mycroft Holmes! If that's the way you're going to be, I'm going to deduct points for unoriginality." Moriarty scowled at him, annoyed at being compared to the boring but undeniably brilliant government agent.

"Well, great minds do tend to think alike." Moriarty shrugged his shoulders, all evidence of discomfort suddenly removed.

"I'm sure I wouldn't know." Lestrade replied guardedly. "So please, all theatrics aside, what do you want?"

Moriarty levelled him a sharp look, evaluating him, his gaze almost physically tangible as his eyes roamed over the DI, taking in the miniscule signs of the man's body language. Lestrade shifted and looked away, clearly unnerved and uncomfortable under Moriarty's close scrutiny.

A feral grin pulled at Moriarty's mouth and set a gleam in his eye. The criminal mastermind turned back to face ahead, keeping a subtle surveilance on Lestrade through the rear-view mirror again. "I've looked over your file." he said coolly, a little spark of satisfaction igniting in his chest when the DI let out a near-invisible sigh of relief when Moriarty stopped staring.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Still deducting points." he murmured, his voice quivered slightly but still came out strong, his bull-headed bravado alone making it so.

Moriarty ignored the quip. "You've got a very impressive record. You're one of the youngest Detective Inspectors I've ever met." he continued like Lestrade had never spoke at all.

"I get it, I get it." Lestrade sighed, holding his hands up in defeat. "You know all about me, all my dirty little secrets, and you're not afraid to bring it to light. Can we skip the obligatory Bond-villain speeches and get right down to the point?"

Moriarty watched him for a good moment through the mirror before continuing. "I'll be brutally honest with you." he said casually and Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "I think you're not as simple as people prefer to believe you are." Lestrade blinked, but otherwise did not respond to the accusation. "Or is it, that they don't know?"

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about." Lestrade replied slowly, unsurely, blinking in confusion. What was Moriarty talking about?

A grin spread slowly across Moriarty's features. "Oh, DI Lestrade, you are a good actor! I may not like you, but I'll give you credit!" he chuckled. "Does Sherlock really not know about the drug addiction in your teenage years? Is it possible that Sherlock's brother still hasn't figured out about your former relations with the street gangs? You did do a good job of burying it in the past and keeping it out of your records. It took alot of searching, really, to uncover your past greivances!"

Lestrade paled considerably and gripped the fabric of his trousered knee. "What do you want?" he spat through gritted teeth.

Moriarty grinned at him, showing pearly whites. "Wonderful!" he clapped his hands. "Very good! Your intelligence may not rival the Holmeses, but you certainly have enough brains to fool everybody else!"

"Mister Moriarty, your demands. Before I lose my temper!" Lestrade hissed, glaring heatedly. But Moriarty had him in a tight spot and everybody in the car knew it.

Moriarty decided to have mercy on him. "Your cooperation, DI Lestrade, what else do I need you for?"

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"

Moriarty turned around again to look him in the eye. "It means I'm going to destroy Sherlock Holmes." he said bluntly. "But before that, I'm going to make him suffer until his _teeeny_-tiny sociopathic heart burns out of his chest, Gregory Lestrade, you're going to help me do it."

Lestrade stared at him, gaping slightly. "You're mad." he gasped in a near whisper. Moriarty's face lit up with satisfaction like he was The Doctor and Lestrade had just told him that the TARDIS was bigger on the inside. "This is fucking rubbish...!" Lestrade dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Moriarty smiled at him faux-sympathetically. "I know, it's alot to take in. But it's not a request, Lestrade. It's a fact." Lestrade removed his hands from his face slowly to stare at the madman. "I'm going to use you to hurt Sherlock, nothing you do will change that. It's more of a question whether you'd cooperate and maybe save Sherlock some grief, maybe some lives if I'm feeling extra generous." Moriarty reached between his and the driver's seat to rest his hand on Lestrade's knee. "And maybe, at the end of the day, you'd still have your job."

Lestrade stared at the limb attached to his leg with obvious distaste but made no move to remove it. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, tone devoid of any emotion.

"Nothing, as of yet." Lestrade blinked up at him with a slight exasperation, refusing to show his defeat. "I'll contact you when I want you to do something. And I know you're not completely stupid, so don't tell anyone. This can be our dirty little secret~." Moriarty sang gleefully. "Drop the good copper off at home, why don't you, pet?" he said to Sebastian.

Sebastian merely glanced at the DI through the rear-view mirror and directed the car toward Lestrade's home.

* * *

><p>"Well, this is your stop." Moriarty smiled brightly like a small boy showing off a shiny rock he'd found, expecting to be praised.<p>

Lestrade blinked, because he sure as Hell wasn't about to do that. Instead, he just nodded. "Thanks." he mumbled and clambered out of the passenger seat.

"Good night." Moriarty called after him, rolling down his window to watch Lestrade climb up the steps to his flat. "Sweet dreams!" he crooned with that infuriating grin.

Lestrade unlocked his front door and rolled his eyes at Moriarty. "Who knows what horrors you've got planned for tomorrow?" he responded, valor slightly recovered once he was well out of Moriarty's potential attack range.

"Well," Moriarty raised an eyebrow, inclining his head. "all the same."

Lestrade waited for the car to pull away from the curb and frowned a little in confusion when it didn't. Moriarty was looking at him expectantly. "Oh." Lestrade realized finally, "Night, Mister Moriarty."

Moriarty smiled, pleased, and rolled up his window. Sebastian sent Lestrade a curt nod and shifted the car into gear, pulling off.

Lestrade stayed standing in his doorway until the car disappeared around the corner, then he let out a sigh of relief. The scare was over, but he knew the real nightmare began from here.

His gaze hardened and he spun on his heel, disappearing into the relative safety of his flat.

God, he desperately needed a drink.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." Lestrade turned to see Mycroft strolling ever so casually toward him on the street outside a crime scene. "Good morning." The government agent flicked his umbrella across his shoulder.

"Mister Holmes." Lestrade nodded back. "Sherlock's not in yet, said he'd be five minutes."

"Actually, I was hoping to speak to you." Mycroft smiled thinly at him.

Lestrade smiled back, equally as tense. "Alright, what did you want to see me about?"

"I won't waste any of your time, DI Lestrade." Mycroft said slowly, moving one foot in front of the other to stand almost shoulder-to-shoulder with the copper. "What did he want?"

Lestrade's heart couldn't seem to decide whether to stop cold or drum wildly, the result was painful to say in the least. Lestrade swallowed. "I don't know, Sherlock demands a great many things. In fact, I was hoping that someone would tell me exactly where Sherlock hid the bust of Napoleon from a week, or so, ago. As it is police evidence, I'd like it back."

Mycroft levelled him with an icy look. "Detective Inspector, I was endeavoring to save you some precious time, I do hope that you would reciprocate the effort."

Lestrade looked away. "Well maybe we can talk another time. I've got a crime scene to look after. If you will excuse me." He turned to leave.

Mycroft grabbed his elbow and anchored him in place. "Jim Moriarty." Lestrade froze.

"What about him?" he asked. "What's he up to now?"

"Three days ago, he's been to the New Scotland Yard and later on, to your flat." Mycroft continued, ignoring his futile attempts at feigned innocence. "You tell _me_ what he's up to." Lestrade shrugged Mycroft's hand off his elbow.

He pressed his lips together, absently wondering how much longer he could remain off the crime scene before Donovan came looking for him. "I'm a cop, I don't want anyone to die." Lestrade declared suddenly, shoving his hands in his pockets and staring at a stress wrinkle just between Mycroft's eyebrows.

Mycroft startled visibly, but his face remained impassive. He knew what Lestrade was implying and wisely did not speak. "So I think you'd better consult Sherlock first, or John, next time you try to ask. Don't suppose you've actually met Moriarty, he doesn't strike me as the type to forgive if I kissed and told." Lestrade heard Donovan holler for him, yelling that the Freak was on the scene.

"Mycroft! Coincidence, meeting you here! You must have wonderful luck, just happening to stumble on a crime scene on your daily stroll." Sherlock drawled, rolling his eyes as he waltzed onto the scene. "Get out."

"Well, that's my cue." Lestrade said before Mycroft could respond and begin an all-out verbal war on his crime scene. He took Sherlock by the sleeve and tried to drag him toward the body for a quick escape. "Goodbye, Mister Holmes!" he called over his shoulder.

Mycroft's arm shot out and jerked the DI back by the arm and lowered his voice so that Sherlock and John would not hear what he said. "You're playing with fire, Detective Inspector. Take care that you are not burned." he whispered in a dangerously low voice.

John gaped at them, Sherlock looked a bit worried and confused. "Mister Holmes, with all due respect, _get your hand off me_." Lestrade hissed.

Mycroft slowly let go of Lestrade's sleeve and raised his hands, showing his palms, indicating that he meant no harm. "Do think about what I said, DI Lestrade." Lestrade didn't know exactly what to say in that situation and suddenly the smoothing of his ruffled overcoat demanded his full attention. "Good morning, Dr. Watson, Sherlock." Mycroft gave his umbrella a little twirl and walked away.

Lestrade knew John and Sherlock were staring at him but continued to stare stubbornly at his insanely riveting toes, amazing he never noticed before. He could feel heat creeping up his neck and cheeks and inwardly cursed Moriarty, although, he did curse Mycroft aloud. "Bloody wanker." he choked out, stomping past John and Sherlock. "Come on! Five minutes Sherlock! Clock's ticking!" he barked over his shoulder as he ducked under the crime scene tape.

"What just happened here, Sherlock?" John asked, watching the detective go.

"Don't know." Sherlock replied in that distracted way of his when his mind was occupied by entirely different thoughts than the content of the conversation.

"You think he's alright?" John nodded his head in the direction Lestrade disappeared in.

"Don't actually know." Sherlock repeated, eyes wandering. "Hit-and-run traffic collision, probably spur of the moment, the reason Lestrade called in was because the victim was found twenty feet off in the river, why? Probably in an attempt to wash off the oil smudges on the victim's hands coinciding with the smudges you see on the steering wheel." Sherlock swiped a sample of the evidence in question. "Stupid. Running water wouldn't wash off oil, so the killer is concerned about where the victim got the oil smudges but doesn't know enough about the oil to know how to get it all off. This oil is exceptional, if it wasn't, why would the killer be concerned about it? Something alien is in this oil, find the eccentricity, find the source of the oil, find the killer." He eyebrows at John. "That should get Lestrade's spirit up, shouldn't it?"

He waltzed from the scene, not even bothering to look at the body despite Lestrade's offers, shouting 'Traffic collision! Boring! Not worth my time! Why did you call me out here, Lestrade?' as he looked for a cab.

* * *

><p>"Sir!" Donovan called out a few days later, poking her head into Lestrade's office. "Call just got in, reports of gunfire, one woman and one Freak knocked out cold but no bodies showed up yet. Should get down there to conduct damage control." Lestrade threw his report down with an exasperated sigh.<p>

"Get the car around." he told her, shrugging into his suit jacket when his phone vibrated in the breast pocket. He pulled it out. Incoming text. "I'll only be a moment." he said, waving the sergeant off.

Donovan nodded and disappeared. Lestrade opened his text. _Ooh! Fun! Irene Adler strikes again! -M_

Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows. Irene who? His phone chimed again. _Sherlock's in a state, get a pic for me would you? -M _Lestrade directed his gaze Heavenward and sighed.

_Do I have to? -Lestrade._

_PLEAAAASE? -M_ Lestrade sighed, pocketing his phone.

_Right, right. -Lestrade._

* * *

><p>"What the Hell happened here?" John looked up at Lestrade's worried tone.<p>

"Oh, it's Sherlock-... Mycroft's case, you know." John gestured toward Sherlock who was situated on a sofa in the pristine room. "There were three other guys in the next room but Mycroft's men collected them so you shouldn't waste time looking for them."

"What's happened to him?" Lestrade inquired, gesturing toward Sherlock, wondering how exactly Moriarty expected him to take a personal picture on a crime scene.

"Irene Adler." John spoke the name dryly like it would explain everything. "Drugged him, said he'd be out of it for ages."

"Who is this Irene Adler?" was Lestrade's next question.

"Probably can't tell you or Mycroft would kill me." John sighed, scratching the back of his head. "National security and all that."

Lestrade grimaced. "I know how he is." Then a slow, mischevious grin worked its way across his face and he crept across the floor gingerly to Sherlock's side so as to not potentially wake him.

"What are you doing?" John asked confusedly.

"Well, I'm supposed to be writing reports, but this is more fun." Lestrade responded in a whisper, whipping out his phone and snapping a photo of the drugged and slumbering detective.

John snorted behind him but was distracted when the paramedics rushed in to make sure Sherlock wasn't actually dying or anything. Lestrade took that moment to send the photo to Moriarty.

"Well! That's that." John sighed tiredly. "I'm just going to take Sherlock back to Baker Street. Sorry for calling you out for nothing." he grimaced apologetically.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders with a grin. "Oh, no worries! I'll probably send the picture out to the rest of the Yard by nightfall anyway." John shook his head and chuckled.

"Okay, see you, Lestrade."

* * *

><p>Irene Adler, The Woman, Dominatrix... she had many names, and as far as Jim Moriarty knew, none of them were genuine. She sat primly in the seat opposite him, applying a few touches of blush to her high cheekbones.<p>

Her eyes jumped up at Moriarty when his phone chimed, signalling an incoming text. "Excuse me." Moriarty smiled charmingly at her as he pulled out his phone. "The damned thing always goes off at the most inopportune moments."

He grinned at his phone delightedly and giggled. "A text from a secret lover while you're entertaining me? I'm hurt." Irene pouted, pursing her lips quite prettily while she spread deep red lipstick over them.

"Are you jealous?" Moriarty turned his phone to show her the screen. "Here, treat."

Irene's gaze flickered up to the picture on the screen to see an image of Sherlock reclined on her couch, out cold. "You have an inside man." she smiled. "Very clever. He must be very good to pull the wool over the eyes of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes."

Moriarty's cheshire grin only widened. "Isn't he? I think so too. And I intend to exploit his position as much as possible."

About a hundred different innuendos ran through Irene's head at Moriarty's words but she shook her head and settled for a, "I feel sorry for your inside man."

Moriarty shrugged his shoulders carelessly and said nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Lestrade was roused from his sleep the night after dragging Sherlock back to Baker Street by some noise by his bedside. He shot up, wide awake before realizing the noise came from his mobile phone. He groaned, rubbing sleep from his eyes and picked up.

"Hello?" he answered, voice husky from sleep.

_"Detective Inspector Lestrade?"_ an unfamiliar woman's voice asked on the other end.

"Uh, yeah. Who is this?" he asked, turning the lamp on his nightstand on.

_"I would like to ask a very important favor of you." _the woman continued on, ignoring his question.

"Um, no." was Lestrade's immediate response. Acquainting himself with the Holmeses taught him, quite quickly, that anonymous strangers who asked for favors in the middle of the night were most likely the kind of people you'd like to avoid.

"_It's to do with Sherlock Holmes." _Lestrade covered his phone's microphone to vehemently curse Sherlock with every bad thing he could come up with off the top of his sleep-addled brain.

Once he was finished his rant, he uncovered the speaker. "Can't promise anything, matters on what you want." he said, brisk and professional.

_"It's nothing dangerous. I have something Sherlock lent me and would like to return it to him." _the woman explained.

"Then what are you waiting for? Permission?" Lestrade asked snidely.

The woman let out a chuckle. _"You're very amusing. No, Sherlock and I haven't parted on the best of terms. It wouldn't be safe for me to deliver the object myself."_

"Why can't you just have it delivered by post?" Mycroft Holmes who has no respect for simply calling on the phone for a 'chat' and the mysterious woman with an aversion for sending objects to someone the normal way. A small, tired, part of his brain snickered.

_"Ruins the drama of the situation, can't blame a girl for wanting to inject a little mystery into romance."_

Lestrade snorted at that. "Can I take an educated guess?" he asked, reaching over for his notebook on the nightstand and flipping it open.

_"Please do."_ the voice on the other end purred.

"Irene Adler?" he read from his notes.

_"Oh, you're very good. I can see why Jim Moriarty likes you." _Irene laughed, it was a sweet, musical noise.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, throwing his notebook onto the nightstand. "I should've guessed." he muttered. "What is it?"

_"A coat, it's hooked onto the street light just outside your flat. Deliver it to Baker Street descreetly, please." _Then the phone clicked dead.

Lestrade sighed but ran outside and picked up the coat, making a mental note to drop it off when he next visited Baker Street which would probably be next morning.

Absently, he wondered just what kind of woman Irene Adler was.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was sat on his sitting room sofa watching TV with a bottle of beer when he heard a noise at his front door. He turned his head to face the doorway, listening to metal scraping against the tumblers in his lock. "Sherlock!" he yelled exasperatedly. "Stop trying to pick my lock and pick up the sodding phone once in a while like a normal person!"<p>

The lock clicked and the door flew open.

"Honey! I'm ho-me!" Moriarty announced, flouncing into the flat, spreading his arms wide.

"Jesus Christ-...!" Lestrade jumped up from the sofa, dropping his bottled beer in the process.

"Sebastian! Do hold on to that for a moment." Moriarty stepped aside for Sebastian to pass into the flat.

Sebastian marched in and grabbed Lestrade, easily manuvering him into a rather painful chokehold. "Get off me you git!" Lestrade gasped, flailing indignantly.

"Oh, hurry, hurry!" Moriarty was near buzzing with energy, prancing to the front door and holding it open for Sebastian and Lestrade. "We musn't linger! Sherlock's annoying brother will be onto us in less than five minutes!" he giggled eagerly.

Moriarty skipped out of the flat while Sebastian rudely man-handled Lestrade into the waiting car outside and deposited him in the back passenger seat with Moriarty before moving to the driver's seat.

"Sorry about all that." Moriarty patted Lestrade's arm apologetically as the ruffled DI struggled to regain his breath. "We had to put on a show for Mycroft Holmes, he's got CCTV trained on your flat like you don't want to know!" he grinned brightly.

Lestrade glared, rubbing his neck. "Alright, next time you want to meet, you two come down to the station!" He smoothed out his wrinkled shirt. "And what happened to calling when you wanted something?"

Moriarty sent a contemptuous look at him. "Bo-ring!"

"Oh great, now you've gone on to imitate Sherlock's trademark wordings." Lestrade muttered under his breath. "I'm just going to go ahead and keep subtracting points."

"Oh? What's the tally now?" Moriarty grinned, raising his eyebrows.

Lestrade ignored the question. "What do you want?"

"Just to have a chat." Moriarty shrugged his shoulders. "Is that a crime?" he smirked.

"You kidnapped a police officer, I think that's crime enough." Lestrade deadpanned. "And since when do you ever kidnap associates of Sherlock for just 'a chat'?"

Moriarty did a one-shoulder shrug and pursed his lips. "Well, I can put you in a semtex vest if that's what makes you happy."

"I'm not saying I'm complaning." Lestrade raised his hands defensively.

"Nah, I'm just bored." Moriarty kicked his feet up against the back of Sebastian's headrest much to the other man's annoyance. He gestured vaguely toward himself. "Me, I've been doing a bit of planning, building up to my next game with Sherlock. And since my games will definitely concern Johnny Boy, Sherlock, and Mycroft, I didn't have anybody else to play with!" He pouted comically. Then the mope bled away to a boyish grin. "And then I thought of you!"

Lestrade groaned inwardly. Why was it always him that pulled the short straw? He pressed his lips together. "I don't suppose I have any say in this?"

Moriarty shook his head. "Nope!" he grinned, popping the 'p'.

"Can I ask where we're going?" Lestrade fished for more questions.

"Nope! But that's because I don't know where we're going either!" Moriarty laughed good-naturedly. Lestrade raised an eyebrow at him incredulously. "Where we're going is... more Sebastian's style, see?" Moriarty tried to explain.

"Alright, what are we going to do there?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"You'll see when we get there. It's a surprise!" Moriarty smiled enigmatically.

* * *

><p>Mycroft frowned as he watched the CCTV footage of Lestrade being attacked and kidnapped from his flat by Moriarty and Sebastian. He briefly wondered if he should inform Sherlock about the situation. Then he squashed the thought. Sherlock was busy with the case involving Irene Adler and incriminating pictures, and most likely wouldn't be interested anyway.<p>

"Where are they now?" Mycroft asked his assistant.

Anthea didn't even look up from her blackberry. "Last seen headed out of London, we have a tail on them. We should hear from them when they stop moving." Mycroft nodded at her. It was all they could do for the moment.

"Thank you, that will be all." he dismissed the woman. Anthea nodded and walked out.

He frowned. Moriarty was taking quite an interest in DI Lestrade and that didn't portend any good, did it?


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"So, what is this?" Lestrade asked when the car rolled to a stop outside an ancient relic of a factory. "Is this where I'm going to die?" His dark brown eyes drank in the full eerieness of the place with its rusted metal beams and cobwebbed doorways.

"Oh please!" Moriarty laughed, dismounting the car before him and holding the door open. "If I was going to kill you, I'd do it where the world can see. If you're going to leave the game, might as well go out with a 'bang', yes?" Lestrade climbed out of the backseat after him and closed the car door after himself. "And besides, this is hardly a pleasant place to die." Moriarty looked around and pretended to shiver in horror.

"No, it isn't." Lestrade agreed, watching a rat of enormous proportions scuttle by. "And you still need me for your games." he nodded more to himself.

"What makes you think that?" Moriarty asked him, eyebrow raised.

"Because you need Sherlock to solve your little riddles, play your little games." Lestrad told him, leaning closer just a little. "And nobody else on the entire police force is mad enough to hire Sherlock on your cases officially except as a witness. He'll undoubtedly be sidelined in the investigations and you can't have that. Face it, Mister Moriarty. You. Need. Me." he intoned slowly with a quiet confidence.

And let it never be said that DI Lestrade, who had grudgingly become accustomed to being trodden on, shoved aside, and utterly underestimated, did not know his own worth.

Moriarty stared him down. He was a man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted and having people play the game _his_ way. Lestrade's defiance made him quite determined to have him... or crush him. Whichever entertained him more. A slow smile morphed across his face. "Yes. I do. Very good, DI Lestrade!" he complimented him mockingly, with a slight nod, sounding like an affectionate master applauding a dog who had just learned a new trick. "But you'd be surprised to know what you can live through." he lilted warningly. Lestrade wondered absently if Sherlock had nerves of steel to handle this madman.

Sebastian got out of the car and locked up before leading them into the building.

As they walked, seemingly without a goal, Lestrade heard snatches of voices shouting. "Over here." Sebastian nodded his head, shoving open a heavy-looking door.

The sound was immense, about fifty people, or more, were crowded around in a circle in the middle of the building, all shouting and screaming. And the smell, Lestrade wrinkled his nose in disgust and struggled not to gag. It smelt of piss, puke, blood, and sweat.

"What is this?" he demanded. They were on the outskirts of the crowd and couldn't see what exactly all the commotion was about.

"This way~." Moriarty sang, taking Lestrade's elbow and tugging him away toward a rusted metal staircase.

They climbed above the clamoring crowds to the second floor where there seemed to be a makeshift stage box. Moriarty trotted to the seats and beckoned for Lestrade to follow.

Lestrade neared the flimsy railing and peered over the edge to see what was going on below them. "What the bloody Hell!" he gasped, gritting his teeth.

Two men built like stone golems were circling each other, exchanging painful-looking blows. Lestrade noted that their fists were bloody and unprotected.

"Thought you might like it." Moriarty smiled at him out of the corner of his eye as he pulled Lestrade down into the seat beside him. "You can call it a sort of bare-knuckle fighting. Difference is; no rules. Anything goes as long as your opponent goes down." As if on cue, one of the fighters in the ring of people fell to the ground screaming, a mouldy wooden splinter stabbed in his leg. The crowds went wild at the sight of blood. "Look at that," Moriarty sneered, watching them as he spread out his arms wide in a sweeping gesture. "Human beings at their lowest."

Lestrade jumped up. "This has got to stop." he muttered under his breath. Sebastian caught him and pressed him back into his seat. "Someone's gonna die!" Lestrade persisted thrashing against Sebastian's grip.

"That's the whole point of the game." Moriarty told him very patiently, pointing at a few people also on the second floor with them. "See? They're even placing bets. Who's going to leave here alive, and who isn't." Moriarty returned his gaze to the two fighters in the ring. "They're fighting, desperate not to die. Doesn't that make you feel so alive, DI Lestrade?" He had a sort of dreamy look in his eye.

Lestrade shivered suddenly and it wasn't because he was cold. "You get a real kick out of seeing people die, do you?" he spat.

Moriarty turned away from the horrifying sight before him to look at Lestrade. "No." he disagreed. "I just think it's hilarious when I see people struggling so pathetically to save their worthless lives."

"Sherlock too?" Lestrade asked, stilling. Sebastian waited a moment before releasing him. "You all almost died in a pool somewhere, I heard from John." He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "These games of yours, they must make you laugh until your sides ache."

Moriarty sighed despondently, shaking his head. "You don't seem to understand, DI Lestrade." he murmured. "I'm not playing games with Sherlock just for the sake of making him dance for my entertainment." He turned his head to continue watching the fighters in the ring. "I'm doing it to feel alive. To feel that high when you're in a position of power over someone with a massive intellect like Sherlock. It's like playing God." He eyed Lestrade. "Of course, I don't expect you to understand how that feels."

Suddenly, he jumped to his feet, pulling a gun from his waistband. Before Lestrade could move to stop him, he pointed it into the sea of human bodies on the ground floor and pulled the trigger twice in quick succession.

Silence. Pure, unadulterated terror overcame the crowds and nobody moved for fear of being the next one to be shot down. The two fighters in the ring lay sprawled, piled together in a mess of dead limbs.

Lestrade's mouth fell open a fraction. "What have you done?" he gasped, staring with a morbid fascination at the growing pool of blood on the cement floor.

"It was taking too long." Moriarty shrugged his shoulders casually and puffed out a breath of air onto the gun's barrel for a dramatic effect. "It was getting boring." His voice boomed out through the building and echoed up into the rafters causing many people to quake. "Lets make this a little more fun!" He placed his gun down on a shabby refreshments table beside him and grabbed Lestrade's hand, lifting it up, dragging Lestrade out of his seat. "Everybody, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade of the New Scotland Yard." Moriarty's smile was purely wicked. "Now, who wants to kill him?"

Lestrade stared at Moriarty, too caught up in panic to bother hiding his terror at being set up to die."What-...?" he squeaked.

It wasn't at all hard to find an opponent for Lestrade. At the very mention of being a copper, almost every competer lined up for a chance at tearing him apart. A few bulky men grabbed the two bodies in the ring and dragged them out, leaving brilliant scarlet drag-marks all across the floor. Lestrade decided that he hated Jim Moriarty with a vengance that Hellfire itself couldn't burn out of him.

"What was that you were saying about this being 'hardly a pleasant place to die'?" he muttered accusingly.

"Then don't die." Moriarty smiled back innocently.

"I've got at least seventeen seasoned scrappers lined up to kill me, you wanker!" Lestrade exclaimed angrily. "Thanks alot!" There were already onlookers beginning to place their bets, the whole situation was depressing to say the least.

"Believe me, you'll give as good as you take." Moriarty chuckled at him knowingly.

"I may have gotten into a few fights back in my teenage years, but not anymore!" Lestrade near whined.

"I wouldn't say that." Moriarty leaned forward conspiratorially and jabbed his finger at him. "You've got that something in your eye." he drawled teasingly. "That dormant demon inside, the animalistic survivor's instincts. It's there, don't try to tell me it isn't."

Lestrade stared at him. "You're crazy." he said finally.

"We'll see." Moriarty sing-songed and flicked his wrist dismissively at Sebastian, gesturing for the man to escort Lestrade down to the ring.

* * *

><p>Mycroft's phone rang shrilly, earning an annoyed grunt from its owner. Mycroft picked it up. "Hello?"<p>

_"Sir."_ it was Mycroft's subordinate who was entrusted with the task of trailing Moriarty. _"They've stopped. It seems to be some kind of event, an illegal fighting competition."_

"What business does Moriarty have there?" Mycroft asked impatiently.

_"He's forced DI Lestrade to enter the fight." _There was a brief, worried silence on the other end. _"I think he's going to kill him."_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_Wham!_ Lestrade reeled, pain exploding on the side of his face, one hand clutching his nose as the other kept flimsy guard. He hated Jim Moriarty, he thought again. More than the idea of Sherlock and Mycroft having an older sibling named Sherrinford. He removed his hand from his face and spat blood. "Come on! Come on!" his ox-like opponent cajoled, beckoning.

Another right hook and Lestrade sprawled face-down into the cement flooring. He pushed himself over onto his back with a groan and saw stars just before making out Moriarty's form on the second floor gallery.

Moriarty was smiling again, shit! He was getting off on this, wasn't he? Watching the ox-man slowly and painfully kill Lestrade. Because watching Lestrade die made him feel alive. The sick, selfish bastard.

"Aw, fuck this!" Lestrade spat, swiping a few drops of blood from his eyebrow to keep them from falling into his eye. He was _not_ going to die here!

He flew at his opponent with a beastly roar and felt, with some satisfaction, his shoulder contact the man's solar plexus and registered the feeling of flesh give under the pressure. Caught off-guard, the ox-man toppled over with a crash and before he could recover himself, Lestrade was straddling him, delivering hard blows to his face and torso with such a wild abandonment that even Sebastian was slightly taken aback by the raw force of nature.

He was far gone past the point of caring what his actions would do to his career. He couldn't hear a thing but the savage beating of his heart in his ears, couldn't see anything but the increasingly scarlet mound of flesh under his knuckles. Lestrade gasped for breath as he felt pure adrenalin course wildly through his veins like fire.

He felt alive.

Moriarty's smile grew, if at all possible, threatening to split his face in half.

* * *

><p>Pain registered before anything else when Lestrade stirred. He let out a sobbing moan and forced his swollen eyes open. His vision swam but through the haze, he could make out Moriarty's pleased expression looming over him and realized that he was resting with his head on the consulting criminal's lap.<p>

"Gooood morning! How are you feeling?" Moriarty chirped far too cheerfully for Lestrade.

How was he feeling? Lestrade took a moment to contemplate the answer. He couldn't move, every inch of his body ached. He felt sick at what he'd done, he vaguely remembered the ox-man, and then after him there was a man with a rat-like face, everything after that, Lestrade couldn't exactly tell if it was real or just a dream. He hoped it was a dream. He was, after all, a copper. It wouldn't do any good for him to go about killing competers in an illegal bare-knuckle boxing tournament.

"I hate you." he groaned honestly.

Moriarty chuckled at him. "That doesn't answer my question." he said, shaking his head.

Lestrade was silent for another moment or two. "I felt it." he murmured quietly, eyelids fluttering closed like he was reliving the fight. "The fear, adrenalin..." he trailed off. He knew Moriarty understood.

"Alive." Moriarty nodded with a proud smile.

"Uh huh, alive." Lestrade conceded reluctantly. "I still hate you, though."

Moriarty just hummed at the peeved detective in his lap. "I'm a little surprised you didn't die, though. You've got a violent animalistic streak when you get really angry, I like that. Alot of the more boring people just rolled over and died." he shrugged.

"Was there really any point in this?" Lestrade asked him weakly.

Moriarty stared at him in astonishment for a moment. "Honey," he sighed patiently. "have you ever felt so alive in your life before this?"

Lestrade's eyes rolled as he thought about it. "No, I suppose not."

"Well, you're alive now, arn't you?" Moriarty smiled. "You triumphed against all odds. People are so interesting in that respect. They just live their boring day-to-day lives, unimpressive, boring. But, people like me," He pointed at himself. "and Sherlock, and Dr. Watson, even Sherlock's older brother, too. They're alive, they live in the battlefield that is London, they constantly live like this day might be their last. They're-..." Moriarty waved his arm, searching for the right word. "...They're really something, arn't they?"

Then he looked down at Lestrade. "You too, now. You've felt it, adrenalin, the thrill of the hunt, it's addictive, isn't it? Now you can't live without it. It's like..." Moriarty was silent for a moment, absently tracing circles on Lestrade's shoulder with his hand. "Have you ever read 'Lord of the Flies'?" he asked.

Lestrade nodded. "The most horrifying thing I've ever read." he grumbled.

Moriarty smiled at him. "Like that."

Lestrade was silent, thinking about what Moriarty said. Moriarty had absolute freedom. Freedom from responsibilities, from social norms, he didn't care what people thought of him. He was wild, he did what he liked, and he liked the hunt.

He let his fire die.

He had gone mad and he didn't want to be saved. Lestrade shuddered. Sherlock wasn't like that, John, and Mycroft neither. They'd keep the fire safe, they'd respect the conch and whatever symbolism the book held.

He rolled his eyes and changed the subject, asking Moriarty. "Where are we now?"

Moriarty glanced away for a moment. "We're almost back in London. It's become morning, by the way." Lestrade felt a jolt and deduced that they were back in Moriarty's car.

"What happened?" Lestrade asked tentatively, not sure whether he really wanted to know, but needing to know all the same.

"You fought well, took down three-... or was it four opponents? The audience decided to give you a short break and you passed out. Shortly after that, there was a blitz police raid but we were already long gone by then." Moriarty filled him in.

"Huh..." Lestrade grunted. "I only remember two opponents."

Moriarty chuckled. "Here-..." he fished around in his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "...a little treat. For your pains." He plucked one stick out of the carton and placed it between Lestrade's swollen lips, lighting it with a lighter he borrowed from Sebastian.

Lestrade eagerly sucked the nicotine into his lungs, letting out a contented sigh. "God, I needed that." he smiled a little gratefully.

Then his eyelids fluttered again and he closed his eyes.

* * *

><p>When he next woke up, he was in a room with an unfamiliar ceiling and John was hovering over him, shining a bright penlight in his eyes. "Lestrade!" the doctor called out. "Lestrade can you hear me?"<p>

Lestrade tried to speak but only managed to let out a small moan. "Lestrade, squeeze my hand if you hear me." John said, placing his hand in Lestrade's.

There was a moment of silence before Lestrade's hand twitched, fingers closing slowly but firmly around John's hand. "That's good, that's good. Hold on, mate, you're going to be alright." John sighed in relief.

"Lestrade," John jumped, startled at the new voice. It was Sherlock. "you look terrible."

"Sherlock-..." John groaned at his flatmate. Lestrade just snorted with a slight grin.

"Can you remember what happened?" That was Mycroft's voice that spoke next. "DI Lestrade?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to say 'I would talk if my throat didn't feel like sandpaper!' but the words died with a rather painful sounding rasp that had both John and Mycroft wincing. Sherlock didn't seem perturbed in the slightest.

"Here mate, drink some of this." John said, pressing a glass of water to his lips.

Lestrade drank greedily. "Where-...?" he started to ask when he was finished.

"Hospital." John cut him off, obivously wary of how much strain his throat could handle at the moment.

"I got that." Lestrade rolled his eyes with a small smile. "I meant Moriarty."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Not denying it this time, then?"

John shot him a quick look. "I'm missing something here." he said bluntly. "What happened?"

"This isn't the first time DI Lestrade's been kidnapped by Jim Moriarty." Mycroft informed John and Sherlock, not moving his gaze from Lestrade. "What happened?"

"Police raid." Lestrade retorted testily. "I assume you already have your information." He raised his eyebrow challengingly.

Mycroft's gaze only darkened. "Mycroft, I think it's better if we let Lestrade rest for a bit." John said, inserting himself between the government agent and the man in the bed.

"How did I get here?" Lestrade asked Sherlock, seeing as John and Mycroft had fallen into quiet disagreement and wouldn't listen to him.

"Moriarty dropped you off at your flat, tucked you into bed, in fact. Mycroft picked it all up on CCTV and sent an ambulance." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

"What do you remember, DI Lestrade?" Mycroft asked, much to John's annoyance.

"I remember being kidnapped, I thought it was Sherlock picking my lock. I was wrong." Sherlock had the decency to look a little embarrassed. "Moriarty and his subordinate, Sebastian, stuck me into a car and drove to a factory outside London." John raised his eyebrows, worried at where the story was headed. "I remember the competitions, according to Moriarty I survived three or four matches before passing out and we slipped out just before the police raid." Lestrade's gaze raised to the ceiling. "I remember waking up once outside London but fell back asleep within a few minutes and then I woke up here." Then he looked back at Mycroft testily. "Anything else?"

Mycroft nodded slowly, soaking in everything Lestrade said. "I see." John sent him a pointed look, mutely willing the government agent not to continue interrogating Lestrade. "Well, it's a rare mercy that your wounds are mostly superficial." Mycroft smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. "Rest well." He turned and stalked out.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Lots and lots of scenes and rehashes from Sherlock from now on! Moments from 'A Scandal in Belgravia' 'The Hound of Baskervilles' and 'The Reichenbach Fall'. Some parts of the story may not fit in exactly, but ignore the mistakes please! DX

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Six<span>

It was Christmas Eve and Lestrade was elbow deep in reports, mostly cases involving traffic collisions, mind. London car traffic in the icy winter, sometimes Lestrade hated his job. John poked his head in, rapping smartly on the door twice.

Lestrade looked up. "Oh, hello, where's Sherlock?" He peered over John's shoulder, confused when he didn't see the consulting detective.

"Well, Sherlock probably wouldn't approve of me inviting you to Baker Street for the Christmas party, thought it'd be easier to ask without him around." John shrugged.

If Lestrade was drinking coffee at that moment, he probably would've done a spit take. Christmas party at Sherlock's? Practically unthinkable! John and Mrs. Hudson rallied against him, no doubt. He let out a humorless chuckle. "Uh, _no_." He quickly looked at John apologetically. "I mean-... with Sherlock and all. I mean... it's _Sherlock_!" He waved his arms for more emphasis.

John let out a good-natured chuckle. "Yeah. ...Stupid question?" Lestrade inclined his head and raised an eyebrow. "Right, okay. Just drop by if you change your mind."

"Alright, alright." Lestrade nodded with a smile. "Thanks for the invitation."

John nearly walked into Donovan on his way out. "Sir." Lestrade nodded at her to enter. "This was delivered to the front desk for you." She placed a small wrapped box onto his desk.

"Does it say from who?" Lestrade asked her, picking it up curiously.

"No, no indication toward the sender, just a note attached with your name on it." Donovan replied. "I should get back to work."

Lestrade nodded his thanks and opened the small white card attached to the box as Donovan left. _Please pass this giftbox on to Sherlock for me, will you darling? Merry Christmas Detective Inspector. A small portion of my love. -Irene _There was a dark red kissmark smudged onto the right hand lower corner.

Lestrade dropped his head back and sighed. He was beginning to feel like the glorified lackey to all the dangerous criminals of the London underworld. He ripped open his desk drawer and deposited the small red box into it along with the card. Looks like he'd have to show up at the Baker Street Christmas party... and he'd have to bring _alot_ of good alcohol.

* * *

><p>The food was wonderful, Mrs. Hudson and John were the perfect hosts, the alcohol was excellent... although he was probably the only one drinking, and as he expected, inserting Sherlock into the middle of it all was a disasterous decision.<p>

He stood by the fireplace warming himself as he waited for the last guests to arrive. His eyes roamed the flat, searching out good places to hide Irene's gift without himself being noticed, but in the open so Sherlock would be able to find it before Christmas passed.

He returned his gaze to the fire, then raised his eyes a few inches. The mantlepiece. Lestrade shook his head a little. It was a good place to hide a gift that needed to be noticed, but everybody was in the room just at his back! It would be too dangerous.

Or would it? Lestrade thought to himself. He wondered if he would be able to sneak the gift onto the mantle without anybody noticing. It felt kind of like the spy games he used to play as a kid... only, it wasn't. It would be fun though, not to mention highly satisfying if he could sneak about his business right under Sherlock's nose. He could feel his adrenalin levels rising a few notches. It scared Lestrade a bit, knowing how much damage he might cause when high on adrenalin, Moriarty sure showed him with his little stunt at the warehouse. But, he had to admit, it was a little bit thrilling.

He sniffed and fished around in his coat pocket for a handkerchief, feeling the giftbox in his pocket brush against the back of his hand. It left like a square of lead in his pocket.

"Oh no, you've got the sniffles too?" Lestrade jumped, gaze leaping toward Mrs. Hudson who sat in John's usual armchair by the fireplace. "Mrs. Turner down the street's got it too." she tutted. "I'll go get you some tissues." She then shuffled out of her seat and disappeared into Sherlock and John's kitchen.

Lestrade jumped at that opportunity to slip the gift onto the mantle without anybody noticing. He let out a sigh of relief when the deed was done. He turned around just as Molly Hooper bustled nervously through the door. Lestrade moved toward the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson reappeared with his tissues. He smiled at her gratefully and leaned himself on the kitchen doorway as Molly greeted everybody brightly.

It really hadn't occured to him before Molly showed up in a stunning black gown that it was only he and Sherlock who wern't dressed up for the occassion. Lestrade because he hadn't known he was going to attend, and Sherlock probably because he really didn't care.

Then he closed his gaping mouth, remembered his manners, and poured the nervously giggling girl a drink.

Aaaand cue for Sherlock to crash the party. Lestrade cringed when Sherlock let loose a barrage of deductions about Molly Hooper, whose only crime was to set out to impress. Lestrade's heart went out to the poor girl. At least Sherlock apologized for it afterward.

And then there was that awkward moment when everybody got slight heart attacks from Sherlock's default text alert. Seriously, that thing always chimes at the weirdest moments... with the _weirdest _ringtones!

"Oh! No! That wasn't-...! I didn't-!" Molly gasped, reddening slightly, hand flying to her mouth.

"No, it was me." Sherlock sighed apologetically, but slightly irrate.

Oh, it was Sherlock...Wait, what? Lestrade couldn't resist the urge to voice his surprise. "My God, _really_?" he asked incredulously just as Molly said 'What?' He was really glad not to be the only one entirely weirded out by the moment.

"My phone." Sherlock clarified, rolling his eyes with a look that indicated he thought they were hare-brained insects. He excused himself to read his text. John's expression alone clearly said, 'don't mind him, that always happens.'

Lestrade gulped the remainder of his drink down, feeling a newfound awe and respect for the man. Then his own phone vibrated in his pocket, also signalling an incoming text. He retreated into the kitchen to read it in relative privacy.

_Hello, Merry Christmas, sexy._ Lestrade rolled his eyes. _Beginning to entertain hopes of you getting me a present but I know you didn't do any Christmas shopping. I was hoping to get a Sherlock this year, but of course, can't exactly ask Santa for that, now can I? -M_

It startled Lestrade a bit, not feeling wary or anxious about a text like that. After so many not-really attacks against Sherlock and almost-there threats, Lestrade had begun to grow a conditioned numbness to Moriarty's constant teasings.

He sighed and promptly sent Moriarty a responding picture of smouldering coal.

Time to fix himself another drink.

* * *

><p>New Years marched steadily toward him on the calendar and Lestrade's anxiety only grew. He was really worried about leaving a man like Moriarty alone with so much firecrackers lying around. Who knows what trouble he'd get into?<p>

But luckily, there was not a peep from the consulting criminal. No people strapped up in bombs, not even a text pleading him to sabotage Sherlock's favorite sofa with Chinese firecrackers. All in all, Lestrade decided it would be an okay New Years.

He got off work quite early that day, although, still quite late for normal working hours, hoping to avoid having to break up midnight fights amongst drunk New Years celebrators. He hated that about holidays. The more the people become excited, the more work piled up for the police.

He passed his car, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, deciding to walk home. It was a crisp, refreshing temperate and Lestrade decided to take a slight detour.

He was walking down a street within easy sight of St. Paul's Cathederal when he felt someone fall into step beside him. He looked up.

The woman was of exceptional beauty rivalling that of Mycroft Holmes's assistant. She smiled at him just as the bells signalled the arrival into a new year. "Happy New Year, Detective Inspector." she said to him.

He knew that voice. Being an acquaintence of both Holmes siblings and one mad criminal mastermind, it was difficult for Lestrade to feel surprise at anything anymore. But still, his eyes widened. "Happy New Year, Ms. Adler." he responded politely. "You're supposed to be dead." he added almost in afterthought.

"You delivered what Sherlock took to be my suicide note." Irene responded, smiling.

"How did you do it? DNA evidence doesn't lie." Lestrade asked curiously.

"No, but people do." Irene chuckled. "Besides, how could you know for sure if I'm the real Irene Adler and not some imposter?" She raised her eyebrow challengingly.

"Voice analysis, for one. And, if you offered a few written words, I'm sure handwriting analysis down at the Yard could work out the truth of your identity." Lestrade shrugged.

"You kept my Christmas card, then?" Irene teased, sounding a little flattered.

"Yep, wrapped up tight in a ziplock bag with all the rest of my 'yours truely. -anonymous' archives." Lestrade rolled his eyes sarcastically. "The people associated with Sherlock. You have no idea."

They strolled along in relative silence, only interrupted by random people shouting 'Happy New Years!' at them.

"So," Irene broke the silence between them. "how does one fall in with both Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty?" she asked with no small interest. "Tell me your secret."

"I dunno." Lestrade shrugged his shoulders, honestly not knowing the answer. "Sherlock comes to me for cases, and Moriarty makes sure I get the right ones for him."

"Oh..." Irene nodded with a secretive smile.

Lestrade saw the look. "What?" he asked with a nervous chuckle.

The woman shook her head. "It's nothing-... It's just that Jim Moriarty seems quite affectionate with you, always sending texts when I'm around." Lestrade wasn't quite sure when Irene was trying to imply, but he wasn't about to rise up to the bait.

"Gleaning any and all information about Sherlock's recent actions." he explained brusquely. "Believe me, I would love it if he stopped doing that... especially during work hours or when Sherlock's on the scene. You know how observant he is."

Irene hummed softly and they continued on in silence. "You're playing a dangerous game, standing between Moriarty and Sherlock as a middleman." she said casually. "Talk about being between the Devil and the deep blue sea."

"Between a rock and a hard place." Lestrade agreed, nodding wearily. "I wish I wasn't."

"Sherlock will burn." Irene said grimly. "And when he does, he won't be the only one taking the fall." She turned and hailed a cab but before she was whisked away, she spoke a few warning words to Lestrade. "Usually, I wouldn't be able to bring myself to care, but be wary. Moriarty is building up for a game bigger than you can imagine. Don't be caught up in it. It'll take you to some pretty dark places of the mind."

She blew him a kiss and mounted the cab. "See you around, copper."

And that was the first and last time Lestrade saw The Woman.

* * *

><p>"You call me out to sightsee Big Ben at ten minutes before eleven. I hate you." Lestrade declared, scuffing his shoe against the ground boredly. "At least try to remember that my lunch break is at twelve, not eleven. I do have a job, you know."<p>

Lestrade eyed Moriarty's outfit, slightly surprised to see him not in his usual attire of tailor fitted suits. He would learn, later on, that Moriarty hardly ever wore his suits unless he was busy being an evil criminal mastermind. 'My eviler skins' Moriarty affectionately called his suits. He normally liked to wear casual clothes, jacket and jeans outside and sweats without footwear when indoors. He even had a warm, cuddly jumper to cheer him up on the miserable, rainy days. _'That's what I love about you, Lestrade' _Moriarty had said once, _'I don't have to be incredibly clever or scary around you.'_

Lestrade had just scratched the back of his neck and responded with an unsure, _'Er, thank you?'_

Moriarty ignored his whining complaints, too interested in his phone. Or, more importantly, the text he just recieved. "What is that?" Lestrade asked him curiously.

Moriarty deftly keyed out a text. "Oh, nothing just a text between two penpals." he said slowly, stabbing the send button. _Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr Holmes, dear me._ He raised his gaze skyward and suddenly blew a raspberry in the vague direction of Big Ben, garnering a startled look from Lestrade.

"Wow. Okaaay. You're definitely one of the weirdest people I know." He raised an eyebrow and droned. "Again I ask, what is that all about?"

"Jumbo jets." Moriarty responded with a distracted air.

"And the raspberry?" Lestrade wrinkled his nose.

"A rude gesture." Moriarty said, eyes roaming this way and that behind his sunglasses. Sometimes, Lestrade wondered if the man was seeing invisible fairies. "Come along, Lestrade." Moriarty turned on his heel and skipped off.

"Come along where?" Lestrade called after him, jogging to keep up.

"I dunno, what's something fun to do?" Lestrade threw his hands up in frustration.

"You called me out in the middle of work because you were _bored_?" Moriarty shrugged his shoulders and widened his eyes innocently.

"Is that a crime, officer?" he asked, still hopping and bouncing away.

Lestrade slowed to a walk behind him, not really wanting to be seen with him. He decided that no matter how annoyed he was, letting a bored psychopath loose without supervision wasn't wise. He continued following on Moriarty's trail. "No, it's not a crime. But any hint of committing one and I _will_ arrest you." he warned.

Great, now not only is he Sherlock's babysitter, he's Moriarty's as well.

"And what was that business about jumbo jets?"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Next time, Lestrade thought when he opened his eyes through his pounding headache, when a psychopathic moron says he's bored, _don't_ follow him to make sure he doesn't do something stupid. Do the smart thing. Run for the hills screaming bloody murder.

He groaned and pulled himself upright, causing a bag of ice wrapped in a handkerchief to fall from his head into his lap. He stared at it dumbly for a moment. Then he realized the whole front of his suit was splotched with dark, drying blood.

There's really nothing so horrifying as waking up without any memory of the last few hours, or so, and realizing you're covered in blood. He jumped up with a startled yell and cast his gaze wildly around at his surroundings hoping, desperately hoping for something to tell him where he was.

He was in a dusty old room vaguely resembling the 221c flat at Baker Street. There was one creaky old bed in the room covered with a dull brown quilt and a nightstand by it caked in grime. On the floor, Lestrade could see the dust upset only by flurried footsteps of someone moving around, pacing perhaps?

Lestrade picked up the ice pack off the bed. The cubes were barely melted and only a few drops gathered at the bottom of the bag. Changed recently? He threw it back onto the bed, disinterested.

He moved toward the door, listening to the wooden boards creak protestingly under his weight.

The door opened out into a hall equally as dusty as inside the room and Lestrade hurried through it, an illogical part of his brain hoping the place wasn't haunted.

But, in a way, it was.

Lestrade found him in the sitting room. Moriarty was seated comfortably on a sofa that looked like it might've been red once apon a time, it was a faded pinkish-brown now, though. His eyes were fixed ahead of him and his mouth moved in silent murmurs. His lanky legs crossed at the knees and the foot suspended in the air twitched occassionally, tapping in time to music only the madman heard.

He was facing a window that was dyed brown and misty with dirt, framing the sunset outside, only the sharp profile of his face could be seen. The sunset looked brown and dirty like the glass he was staring through and it resembled a photograph taken in monochrome but Moriarty merely stared at it, not really seeing it. It was like he was caught up in some strain of profound thought.

Lestrade leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms, not wishing to disrupt the peaceful moment, waiting for Moriarty to notice his presence and make the first move.

It was about ten minutes later when Moriarty finally stirred from his position. He blinked slowly, blearily, sighing contentedly like he had just woke from a deep slumber. He turned his head to look at Lestrade. "'Whose blood is it?' you were wondering." Moriarty murmured, observing Lestrade's soiled suit.

Lestrade nodded silently. "Do you remember what happened?" Moriarty asked him. Lestrade shook his head, no. Moriarty turned his head to stare ahead again, the sunlight through the dirty window cast an amber dye across his cheekbones and spilled into his dark eyes.

Lestrade suddenly realized he didn't know what colour Moriarty's eyes were. "We were assaulted... by an enemy of mine." Moriarty told him. "One amongst many enemies you are bound to make when you're a criminal." And there was that fairy-searching look again. "I. Killed. Him." he said in a sing-song tone and smiled widely. "Don't worry, the police must've found him by now."

A cold feeling dropped into Lestrade's stomache and the skin brushing against the bloodied suit itched. He clenched his jaw and said nothing, not trusting himself to speak. Moriarty looked up at him from his seat, gaze dead and haunted. "You know, it _is_ the natural law of the world, kill or be killed, let the best man win. The law of survival. Man-made laws cannot ever control that one animal instinct that is so precious to humankind." Moriarty said softly, slowly, his voice bleeding into Lestrade's ears like Devil's honey, swaying his anger and resolution to see the madman behind bars. "Gregory-... Greg," he said urgently, calling Lestrade by his given name for the first and last time in their lives. "don't ever forget that. It's very important. I might kill Sherlock one day, and maybe-... I don't know. Maybe Sherlock might kill me too. But don't hate me for it."

Lestrade gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. With a voice like that, Moriarty could well tell him that Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were created by a top-secret, government-funded team of bio-scientists as military intelligence weapons and Lestrade would willingly believe. He'd have to be careful.

"That's all nice and well, Mister Moriarty." he responded at length with a forced impassiveness. "Is there a working shower in here?"

Moriarty motioned for him to turn the lights on, it was getting dark, after all. Lestrade shifted his weight to reach the lightswitch. He flicked it on and the dusty overhead light blinked on, casting a pasty white light onto Moriarty's head.

"We have electricity, probably have water, then too." Moriarty smiled at him.

Lestrade stared at him blankly. "Should I turn the light back off for you, then?" he joked, deadpanned.

"Please." Moriarty turned back to the window, now black with the darkening of the day.

Lestrade blinked. "Oookay." He flicked the switch back off, plunging the room into darkness.

"There was a towel in the dresser down the hall." Moriarty's voice floated out of the dark.

Lestrade turned and ambled down the hall and found the towel Moriarty mentioned, briefly wondering why there was a dresser at the end of the hall in the first place. He entered the bathroom and turned the light on, startling at the image of himself reflected in the cracked sink mirror.

He looked like a zombie with his blood-soaked suit and angry red gash on his forehead where he assumed Moriarty's enemy hit him hard enough to knock him out. He also noted the dark rings around his eyes and a smudge of dirt on his cheek.

He threw his towel onto the closed toilet seat and turned the shower on, waiting for a while for the water to wash rust out of its pipes. After a moment of contemplation, he decided that the water heating systems would be shot to pieces, taking the condition of the rest of the derelict flat into consideration.

He toed off his shoes and socks before placing his phone and wallet onto the toilet seat and stumbled into the tub under the flow of water, suit and all. He just stood under the freezing shower for a few minutes before half-heartedly scrubbing at the grime on his face and hands. It took him a while to get the dried blood off his hands entirely but he continued to scrub at them diligently until his skin was numb and raw. But they were clean.

With cold, shaky hands, he unbuttoned his jacket, letting it fall to the porcelain floor of the tub with a wet flop. He tried to do the same with his shirt but his numb fingers couldn't seem to be able to pinch the little buttons between them and he quickly gave up. He sighed and pressed his forehead to the cold tiles of the wall and squeezed his eyes shut.

He heard a rustle of cloth brushing against similar fabric and opened his eyes. Moriarty had abandoned his darkened sitting room and now stood in the doorway, not exactly leaning into it, but curling his hand around the door jamb, an unreadable expression on his face.

Lestrade stared at him tiredly for a moment before extending his hand, closing the shower curtain and hiding himself from sight. "If you don't mind, Mister Moriarty!" he exclaimed with a subdued exasperation. If he had a little more energy, he probably would've tried to throw something at him.

He returned his attention to the mission of getting his buttons off but, like a few seconds earlier, his hands simply would not cooperate. They would tremble and shake and fumble over each other but they would not undo the damned buttons.

The curtain was drawn aside with a sound of metal scraping rust and Moriarty stood there sighing at him reprimandingly. "Come here." he commanded, rolling his eyes. "Tired, or no. Ruined, or no, that is not how you treat a suit." he tutted.

Moriarty took Lestrade by the shoulders and turned him to face him, startling a little at how easily Lestrade complied. He took the buttons of Lestrade's shirt and deftly slipped them free. Lestrade scowled at how easy he made the simple action look.

He stiffened when Moriarty's warm fingertips brushed against his ice-cold bare skin as the criminal mastermind gingerly peeled the bloody shirt off his chest with a grimace. "Well, that's ruined." Moriarty sighed, holding the grimy, sodden shirt up delicately between the tips of his thumb and forefinger before dropping it.

"Ah, thanks for the help. I think I can manage now." Lestrade stammered, blushing, clutching the plastic-y fabric of the shower curtain to close it again.

Moriarty's hand shot out, grabbing Lestrade's hand as well as the shower curtain, holding them both in place. "No, I don't think you can." he said simply.

"Well, you're wrong if you think I'm letting you anywhere near my pants." Lestrade scoffed.

All it took was another brush of Moriarty's fingertips over his chest, absently rubbing a smudge of blood off his collarbone for Moriarty to see Lestrade's pupils dilate and felt the man shiver under his fingers. Seduction came easily to Moriarty, he just needed to adjust the tone of his voice and act kind to people and they were drawn to him like moths to a candle. And like honey, he trapped them to himself. Like Sebastian, almost like that stupid puppy dog girl. Molly Hooper may love Sherlock Holmes unconditionally but Gregory Lestrade certainly didn't. His loyalties could be changed.

"Your pants don't have to be anywhere _near_." Moriarty responded softly, leaning in so Lestrade could hear his whisper.

Lestrade tore his hand out of Moriarty's grasp and stumbled away from his touch, backing himself into the wall, feeling the trails Moriarty made on his skin like white-hot fire. It had been so long since he slept with his wife, Christmas and divorce felt like an eternity ago, and his work never let him meet any decent people. He almost couldn't remember what it felt like to wake up in bed, feeling the warmth of another body next to his.

His instincts, his carnal desires screamed at him, begging, _needing_ the warmth of Moriarty's fingertips, tempting him to just reach out and touch, to taste, ...to feel, craving for human contact. Lestrade forced himself to look away and swallowed.

This was Jim Moriarty! His brain tried to tell him. Remember him? The psychopath who kidnaps people and straps them into semtex vests? Who cold-bloodedly shoots two scrappers because their fight was taking too bloody long? Who threw you to the wolves and nearly killed you? He killed a man only hours ago! He's the man who promised to destroy Sherlock and at the rate you're going, you're willingly going to help him. Good God, Jim Moriarty was right!

"Stop thinking, you'll hurt your brain." Moriarty chuckled warmly, reaching out and trailing his hand up Lestrade's arm slowly.

"My skull's just been cracked open by your enemy, wouldn't hurt to cause a little more damage, would it?" Lestrade responded weakly, resisting the urge to lean into Moriarty's warm touch. God! Why was the water so cold?

As if hearing his thoughts, Moriarty removed his arm from Lestrade's arm and twisted the tap, halting the flow of water. "You'll catch a cold if you stay here any longer." Moriarty noted distractedly, stroking Lestrade's cold cheek.

Lestrade suddenly shied away from the physical contact with an expression that told Moriarty he was torn between reciprocating the attention and punching him for it.

Before he could make up his mind, Moriarty leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss against his cool, shivering lips. When he pulled back, Lestrade's eyes were wide and shocked, his mouth falling open at his surprise first taste of corruption. Moriarty enveloped one of Lestrade's cold hands in his warm one and pressed it to his cheek. "See? Warm." he smiled innocently.

Lestrade seemed to react to that and he raised his other hand, cupping Moriarty's other cheek and pulled him into another kiss that was both tentative and unsure. But Lestrade had instigated it, that counted for much.

Moriarty snaked an arm around the back of Lestrade's bare torso and pulled him flush against his clothed one, shoulder to waist, satisfied when Lestrade wrapped an arm around his neck and deepened the kiss, growing more confident.

Lestrade moaned against's Moriarty's mouth when the man ran his hands up his back to clutch his shoulders, their tongues battled, tasting, intoxicating, speaking words that would never make its way out of the grimy four walls surrounding. Moriarty's tongue deftly flicked out and sparked fire on the nerves running along Lestrade's neck up to the lobe of his ear which Moriarty proceeded to scrape at with his teeth.

And, _God_, Lestrade couldn't help but think. _He sure knows how to use his tongue._

"Mmm, bed?" Lestrade gasped when they surfaced for air.

"Pants first, Detective Inspector." Moriarty smirked at him, flicking his tongue out and licking at a patch of skin behind the DI's ear, sending a shiver through Lestrade's body. "They're wet and yucky! Plus, you won't let me near them, remember?" he reminded, inclining his head.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, muttering something along the lines of 'Spoiled git!' but he voiced no objection when Moriarty took hold of his belt buckle and Moriarty knew he had won.

DI Lestrade was his.

* * *

><p>"Lestrade!" Sherlock bellowed, throwing the door of the DI's office open despite Donovan's angry shouts. "I can't belive I'm coming to you for help! I need a case! John's hidden my cigarettes! Can you believe the nerve-...!" Sherlock turned around inside the office, his coattails swishing when he realized he was alone in the office.<p>

He poked his head out of the door. "Where's Lestrade?" he demanded of Donovan.

"I tried to tell you he wasn't in!" Donovan retorted accusingly, crossing her arms.

"Well, where is he?" Sherlock asked impatiently, near jumping around in his agitation. "This is an emergency!"

"He sent in a text saying he wouldn't be in for the day." Donovan shrugged his shoulders.

"Is he dead?" Sherlock asked, Donovan shook her head. "Dying?" Again, Donovan shook her head. "... Severely ill? Lestrade never leaves off work for anything less than a trip to the A&E!" Sherlock persisted.

"Maybe he went and got himself a life?" Donovan suggested exasperatedly.

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. "Lestrade? Get a life? Absurd!" He sniffed contemptuously and gallivanted off.

Donovan watched him leave, rolling her eyes. "Freak."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Lestrade sleepily blinked open his eyes with a deep, contented sigh at the warm rays of sunlight tickling against his bare back, feeling more rested than he'd felt in a long time. Then, he gave a violent start when his vision sharpened.

He was staring into Jim Moriarty's slumbering face not five inches away from his own.

_Holy Hell. No, just-... no. __**Please**__ tell me I didn't-... I did, didn't I?_

Lestrade lay there, frozen in place, eyes wide and staring unintelligently. It really was horrifying how very nude Moriarty's body was next to his. The full realization of the gravity of his actions dropped onto Lestrade like a blanket of winter rain.

He gave in to his natural instincts and launched himself out of the bed with a yelp. "No, no, no, no! Gregory Lestrade, you _complete_ dolt! You've taken stupidity to a whole 'nother level, you _idiot_!" he berated himself loudly, throwing his towel around his waist self-consciously, moving around to the foot of the bed, a safe distance away, he decided. He probably would've snagged the bedsheets to cover himself but _really_ didn't want to face a very, very naked, uncovered Moriarty on the bed.

Moriarty stirred, groaning in annoyance at so much commotion so early in the day. "What the Hell is going on?" he moaned groggily, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Lestrade gulped. No, no, no, don't think of Moriarty moaning, ...just don't. "Uh." Lestrade cleared his throat nervously. "_Well_...!" He swallowed thickly.

Moriarty slowly removed his arm from his face to look at him calmly. Lestrade slightly resented how poised and bemused he was about the whole situation. A slow smile made a home on Moriarty's face. "Good morning... _my_ _dear_." he purred teasingly.

It was all Lestrade could do to keep himself from fleeing the room immediately. His eyes briefly flickered contemplatively toward the door leading out into the hallway before returning to the man in the bed. "M-morning." he stammered back dumbly.

"Feeling regrets already?" Moriarty chuckled.

Lestrade jumped, vaguely remembering Moriarty telling him last night that he didn't have to do anything he might regret... but, that was also the very moment Lestrade had eagerly, if not, _willingly_ taken on the task of unzipping the criminal mastermind's tailored trousers... with his teeth... No! Don't think about that!

Moriarty giggled at the adorable blush that graced the DI's features at recalling their lewd behavior the night before. Under all those layers of hardened cop and jaded personality, DI Lestrade really had his endearing moments.

"I'm-..." Lestrade grasped for adequate words. "I'm just going to go shower." he grimaced, fighting down his flush.

"Can I join you?" Moriarty raised an eyebrow with a smirk.

"No-... no! _Please_ don't." Lestrade spluttered, quickly fleeing into the privacy of the bathroom, locking the door just in case.

Moriarty threw his head back and laughed.

Then he fell silent as he heard the shower begin to run in the bathroom. Sherlock would need a lesson in knowing how to keep his friends close so as not to let them fall into bed with psychopathic consulting criminals. No, for Sherlock that would seem a most Herculean feat. For all his skill in observation, Sherlock Holmes really didn't know a good thing he had until it was gone.

Oh, he knew all about Lestrade and Sherlock. He'd done his homework like a good little boy.

He knew that Lestrade met Sherlock as a police constable fresh out of the academy and neck-deep in a secret battle against his addiction to drugs. Both he and Sherlock were severely addicted but only Lestrade succeeded in kicking the habit, Sherlock didn't. Three months after they met, Sherlock OD'ed and Lestrade took a few weeks off work to tend to him under the excuse of family emergency.

Neither touched the drugs again, Lestrade saw to that. A year after the incident, Sherlock showed up unexpectedly at a crime scene, free of drugs but bored, and that gave birth to Sherlock Holmes the 'consulting detective'. Sherlock was the one and only consulting detective on Earth, he created the job, but not even on pain of death would he admit that it was Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade who had jokingly coined the term.

_"That's amazing, Sherlock! How did you guess that?"_

_"Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade, I never guess."_

_"No, you make complicated but educated guesses. Does that make you a detective?"_

_"Absurd. I'd hate to be restricted to the label of merely 'detective' I do so much more than that. Besides, you're a detective and you're not so productive on scene!"_

_"Yeah, I ask you what you know, and you tell me. ... I consult you about crimes-... you're a consulting detective!"_

_"Shut up, Lestrade."_

_"But it's true!"_

_"No it isn't."_

_"Then what is it you do?"_

_"..."_

_"You're a consulting detective."_

_"Shut up."_

But, other than a source for puzzles and interesting cases, a supplier to get him his fix, Sherlock never interested himself much in the DI. Moriarty couldn't fathom why. Even though Sherlock was asexual, he _was _aware that he found people of the same sex more attractive than those of opposite. Surely DI Lestrade was one of those people who had obliviously led Sherlock to realize the fact?

Lestrade, on the other hand, had entertained a slight crush on the consulting detective that lasted for all of a month before the phase was past him and he grew comfortable with being simply a friend with benefits for Sherlock, someone who Sherlock knew he could trust implicitly. Like a helpful outsider looking in on the chaotic world that was Sherlock's mind.

Then John Watson stumbled along. Ex-army doctor, adrenaline junkie, fond of jumpers and looking, for all the world, like a big, grumpy teddy bear. They were flatmates, they had adventures together and, maybe they even had more, Moriarty didn't know.

And poor DI Lestrade, always abandoned at crime scenes, now restricted to only introducing Sherlock to cases and snapping handcuffs on the wrists of people Sherlock singled out. He never complained, he actually seemed relieved that Sherlock found someone to truly cherish and act human around, even if it wasn't him.

He recieved no thanks for his pains, and not once had he ever expected any. But for all that DI Lestrade did for him, Sherlock should've at least seen the signs of the man's loneliness. All it took was a little interest and kindness from Moriarty to make Lestrade forget Sherlock for a while.

So, Moriarty thought methodically, one of his first plans of actions for his and Sherlock's games would be to strip him of all the things and people he took for granted. It was people like Lestrade who toiled to make Sherlock the brilliant man he was now, they were the legs he stood on.

Moriarty decided he would brutally cut them away.

"Oh, God, you're still in bed!" Lestrade exclaimed, appearing in the doorway for about a millisecond before turning on his heel and retreating again, this time, into the sitting room. "Get some clothes on!" he shouted behind him.

Moriarty just snorted and dragged himself out of the bed, throwing his sheet haphazardly around himself as a makeshift toga before following.

Lestrade was sitting on one of the cushioned armchairs near Moriarty's designated sofa, shirtless, but wearing his trousers which were thankfully free of blood. He absently scrubbed at his damp head with the towel draped over his shoulders as he checked his phone for any missed messages. "I hope you know that what happened last night doesn't change anything." Lestrade said brusquely, not looking up.

"No, of course not." Moriarty smiled back easily. "We can just be friends with benefits."

Lestrade looked up at that and was compelled to do a double-take. "You're... still not dressed." he managed thickly as he stared blatantly.

"What time is it?" Moriarty asked, changing the subject with an airy wave.

Lestrade returned his gaze to his phone. "Nine a.m." he responded before his eyes widened. "Shit! I need to get back to work!" He jumped up.

"Relax, darling." Moriarty drawled, catching his arm as the DI tried to pass him to get to the door. "I sent them a text while you slept, saying you wouldn't be in today." He nudged Lestrade back to his seat.

Lestrade sat down heavily and checked his sent texts. Sure enough, there was the text in question giving him an approved day off. "We've got all day." Moriarty smiled.

Not sure if he wanted to spend the whole day with the psychopath, Lestrade just settled for a strained smile. "_Great._" that came out more sarcastic than neccessary.

"It might be, don't have anything planned yet." Moriarty smiled back cheekily.

"But seriously, get some clothes on you weirdo." Lestrade chuckled embarrassedly, carefully averting his gaze.

Moriarty just smirked back slyly and dropped his sheet to the floor. "Or what, officer? You'll arrest me?" He inclined his head, playfully striking a pose, emphasizing his state of undress.

Lestrade stole a shy glance before flushing and quickly returning his gaze to the windows, squirming under Moriarty's steady gaze. "Don't tempt me to do so. I'm sure Sherlock and Mycroft would be greatly amused if I did." he threatened defiantly.

Empty threats.

Moriarty stauntered closer to him, leaning into his personal space and took the DI's chin between his forefinger and thumb and sharply turned his face toward him, forcing him to look at his naked body as he supported himself against the headrest of the seat just over Lestrade's right shoulder with his other hand, trapping him. "But we both know you wouldn't really." he smiled quietly.

He studied Lestrade's eyes, dark, pupils wide, quite confident that Moriarty was right about him not turning him over to the Holmeses but unsure of whether he wanted to encourage Moriarty's behavior or not. He was a cop, after all. But, Moriarty knew. He was human, first and foremost. He casually perched himself on Lestrade's lap, straddling him, easily bringing their faces mere inches from each other. "Would you?"

He shifted his hips, un-overtly grinding their groins together, eliciting a muffled moan from Lestrade. "That's-..." the DI gasped. "That's not fair."

Moriarty chuckled. "Oh, honey, I don't play fair." He leaned in and nibbled on Lestrade's ear.

"Point made, Mister-... Mister Moriarty." Lestrade responded weakly, shivering at the contact. "I really should call in, make sure Sherlock hasn't killed anyone, though. He visited the Yard earlier and red flags have already gone up in Donovan's head." He tried to extract himself from Moriarty.

"Forget about Sherlock." Moriarty whispered back urgently, grabbing Lestrade's wrists and pinning them to the chair's tall back, earning himself a wide-eyed, look of surprise from the man. "Forget about the cases, if Sherlock or the Yard need your help, they'll contact you. Just forget about everything when you're with me." Moriarty surprised himself a little at the possessiveness in his voice. God, he was becoming a good actor!

"Just you wait, in a moment or two someone's going to cause trouble." Lestrade whined half-heartedly as Moriarty planted soft butterfly kisses all over his face.

He startled when Moriarty plucked his phone out of his hand and sent him a sly wink. "Relax, DI Lestrade! You are too stressed-out about your work. I think someone needs a long overdue vacation." He giggled and typed out a text at lightning speed and, before Lestrade could stop him, sent it.

"What did you do?" Lestrade growled, reaching for his phone. "Mister Moriarty, give that back, now!" Lestrade demanded, trying to sound severe, but only succeeding in sounding like a child whose toy had been stolen by a park bully.

Moriarty grinned and dangled it tantalizingly just inches out of Lestrade's reach. "No, I don't think so!" he sang.

"Moriarty, I won't ask again." Lestrade glowered, pressing his lips together.

"Kiss me like you did last night?" Moriarty requested innocently, pointing to his lips.

"Oh, you sadistic bastard!" Lestrade hissed without any real malice, crushing their lips together in a searing kiss, phone immediately forgotton.

Moriarty bit Lestrade's bottom lip hard, causing the DI to wince slightly, then brushed his tongue over the mark soothingly, begging entrance into Lestrade's mouth. Lestrade didn't deny him of it. Moriarty wasted no time in plundering the DI's mouth, memorizing his taste and every part of his warm, wet cavern.

"When was the last time you left London?" Moriarty asked suddenly when they broke apart.

"Um, last, last year Christmas." Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows, a little dazed. "Why?"

"Hmm, last time out of the country?" Moriarty continued his mock-interrogation.

"Never been." Lestrade shook his head.

"About time you did, don't you think?" Moriarty grinned, trailing a finger down Lestrade's cheek, feather-light. "Let's get some sunburn on that face."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this." Lestrade groaned, trailing Moriarty meekly into an extravagant hotel suite somewhere in Venice, Italy. A place where Lestrade didn't even know how to pronounce the name of the hotel, much less spell it.

"But isn't it fun?" Moriarty giggled back, draping himself dramatically over the velvet sofa in the lounge. "And much more stylish than dreary ol' London!" He reached over to a coffee table situated near the sofa and snatched up a green apple from a fruitbowl, tossing it up into the air before catching it and taking a hearty bite.

"I happen to like London, thanks!" Lestrade grumbled, pulling up a chair and plopping himself onto it.

"But that's only because you don't know anywhere better!" Moriarty smiled at him in between chews. "Believe me, when we're through here you won't want to go back." Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Well, except, there's Sherlock in London." Moriarty shrugged his shoulders helplessly."We'd have to go back occasionally for Sherlock."

"You didn't even let me pack anything, just kidnapped me and carted me off somewhere outside the country." Lestrade griped, crossing his arms.

"We can buy everything we need here." Moriarty shrugged his shoulders casually.

"You could've told me where we were going." Lestrade added.

Moriarty sunk his teeth into another portion of the apple's juicy flesh. "And ruin the surprise? Never!"

"But what are we going to do here, really?" Lestrade asked, getting up off his chair to approach the large windows framing a picturesque vision of the sea and cosy red clay-tiled roofs surrounding them. It looked like an oversized postcard.

"What does one usually do on vacations?" Moriarty asked in reply.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "Sightsee?" he suggested, then he grimaced, turning around to face Moriarty, leaning against the window. "Can't quite imagine you just staring at historical architectures without breaking in or anything."

Moriarty took another large bite of his apple. "We can go to the beach, visit Rome, attend a carnival, oh, I know! Listen to opera! Find a quaint little restaurant and eat spaghetti from the same plate..." He shifted on the couch to lie on his back._ "Oh thiiiis is a night, it's a beauuuutiful niiiight, and we caaaall it Beeeella Notteeee. Look at the skies, they have staaaars in they're eeeeyes on this loooovely Beeeella Notte." _he crooned playfully with a brutally butchered Italian accent, mimicking a man playing an accordian as he stared up at the chandelier hanging above his head.

"Lady and the Tramp, seriously?" Lestrade laughed. "You're weird, you're-... definitely strange."

"Is that a complaint?" Moriarty raised his eyebrow with a smile.

Lestrade dashed over to jump onto the sofa with a grin. "Not a chance." He pecked Moriarty's lips cheerfully. "I'm starving! Let's go find that restaurant."

* * *

><p>They found their restaurant just as the sun was beginning to touch the sea, Lestrade had glanced at his watch to check the time when Moriarty guffawed, reminding him of the different time zones. They had spent most of the afternoon wandering the unfamiliar streets, pointing out restaurants, arguing that 'This one is too loud', or, 'This one smells weird', some reason or another.<p>

But, as they settled into their seats opposite each other at a small round table on an outside patio overlooking one of the thousands of canals in Venice, they decided that the minor adventure was worth it. The restaurant was quite small, hidden in a little nook on the street between two larger houses, they had nearly missed it. In fact, they would've if it wasn't for the small menu scrawled in Venetian on a dirty blackboard in front of it.

They had stopped briefly, trying to guess what was written there, Lestrade had suggested a child had written it for some kind of homework, Moriarty jokingly assumed it was some newer form of modern art. Imagine their surprise when they looked the words up in a English-to-Venetian dictionary Moriarty had bought from a bookstore and realized it was a menu.

They had both stared at the neat text on the dictionary and compared it to the scrawl on the blackboard. "Is it the same thing written?" Lestrade had asked skeptically, peering curiously over the criminal mastermind's shoulder to see the dictionary.

Moriarty squinted. "Yes, I... think so." He nodded to himself in satisfaction. "Yup, definitely a menu."

They exchanged glances. "I think we've found us a match." Lestrade grinned.

The waiter came and poured them both glasses of water, asking in broken English if they decided on what to eat. Moriarty took one glance at the menu offered to them and showed it to Lestrade with raised eyebrows. Neither could read what was written on it. Then he passed it back to the waiter. "Anything you recommend." He smiled politely.

The waiter nodded and retrieved the menu with a sympathetic look that told of many tourists who also couldn't read the menu. He returned several minutes later with two plates of positively mouth-watering pasta and a bottle of red wine.

"Ooh! Very nice! Quite classy." Moriarty whistled in admiration. "Obviously, this waiter is quite used to handling tourists' dinner courses."

Lestrade rolled his eyes with a chuckle and nodded gratefully to the waiter. "They should just print out a menu in English too."

Moriarty grunted behind a mouthful of noodles before swallowing. "Bet it's a sort of tourist trap, they put out the most expensive dish and wine."

Lestrade snickered and sipped his wine. "Maybe."

Their meal progressed in companionable silence, only once interrupted by Lestrade daring Moriarty to try and tell the waiter that the food was good in Venetian. The waiter just sent him a puzzled smile and both tourists burst out into laughter.

"Lets go out on one of those." Moriarty said suddenly, pointing out to a gondola just drifting past them on the canal.

"Really? I think I'd rather stay on solid ground." Lestrade tried to dissuade him.

"Come on! You won't be able to ride a gondola in London!" Moriarty cajoled as he payed for their meal and dragged Lestrade out to the docks.

They found a quaint little ship for tourists and hopped in, feeling a little thrill when the gondola dipped and bobbed under their feet. "Oh, sit down before you fall out!" Moriarty laughed when Lestrade nearly lost his balance.

Moriarty sat at the front facing Lestrade and the gondolier moved silently behind them. The sky was dark now and the street lamps were on. The gondolier also lit a lamp, casting a warm glow across the surface of the water. The two stared, transfixed at the small light show. It was like watching fireflies flicker underwater.

"Just like on the telly." Lestrade chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.

He looked at Moriarty when the man didn't respond. He was still staring at the lights in the water, his eyes reflected the bright glint and Lestrade was again reminded about Moriarty's elusive eye colour. "What are you thinking about?" he asked.

Moriarty blinked and looked at him. "Sorry, spaced out, it's nothing." he lied, reaching out to touch the water, scooping up a handful of glittering water and watching it drip through his fingers.

"Bollocks." Lestrade sighed, rolling his eyes a little. "It's Sherlock, isn't it? Your games." He didn't seem severely upset.

Moriarty looked guilty and a little apologetic. "Sorry." he repeated.

"Oh, don't be." Lestrade waved magnimoniously, a resigned look on his face. "I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't have to be." Moriarty responded sharply, frowning.

"No, I shouldn't." Lestrade agreed, shrugging his shoulders. "But it's Sherlock, what can you do? Besides, it's not like I'm your boyfriend."

Moriarty regarded him for a prolonged moment before leaning forward and kissing him. "And for that, I'm sorry." he whispered again.

"Three 'sorry's in a row? Is this a record?" Lestrade joked, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"Yeah, well, I decided to step out of the rut for a moment." Moriarty shrugged his shoulders, wrinkling his nose. "Been wondering what it's like... living like a normal person for once. You have to say your 'please's and 'thank you's and 'sorry's. Being normal is hard." he rambled boredly.

"Bet you've never said 'sorry' to Sherlock." Lestrade said, turning to stare at the water again, the light reflecting off it illuminated his profile. "Or John, or Molly."

Moriarty thought about it for a moment. "No. I've never apologized to anyone for anything." he replied honestly.

"Never raised your voice at me either. Does that make me special?" Lestrade smiled a little, sadly.

"Maybe..." And there was that fairy-searching look again. "Perhaps."

Lestrade swallowed. "Okay." No trace of disappointment or sadness. Just a vocal indication that he understood.

The gondola slowed down and bumped to a stop at the next pier. Lestrade stood and hopped out of the boat, Moriarty at his heels. "Lets go to the beach tomorrow." The consulting criminal said, winding an arm around Lestrade's waist, smiling when Lestrade melted into his side.

"The beach? We don't even have any swimwear." Lestrade said, furrowing his eyebrows.

Moriarty planted a kiss on his temple. "That's true, but I was kinda hoping we could go skinny dipping."

Lestrade's rumbling laughter vibrated against Moriarty's body. "You bloody pervert."

"There's also a carnival tomorrow night. We need to go out to find some costumes. And don't even say you don't want to because I'm having none of that." Moriarty smiled at him. "You are going to dress up in a costume you wouldn't be found dead in at the Yard, and you will enjoy it."

Lestrade chuckled back at him. "I'll take your word on it."

* * *

><p>Lestrade stirred a little, blinking his eyes blearily and habitually reaching for his phone. It wasn't ringing. So what was he roused by so late in the middle of the night? He lifted his head a little and grinned affectionately at feeling Moriarty's body heat pressed up along the length of his back and his arm wrapped around Lestrade's waist holding the DI close enough to feel his even breathing on his spine. Moriarty didn't once stir from the noise.<p>

_Oh._ Moriarty's phone blinked in his discarded jacket pocket, indicating a missed call. Lestrade glanced at Moriarty's face again, making sure the man was still slumbering deeply before slipping gingerly out of his grip and sliding out of bed noiselessly. He brushed his hand over Moriarty's phone and lifted it smoothly out of the jacket pocket. He paused for a moment in contemplation and decided to take the jacket with him. He tiptoed into the lounge, closing the bedroom door behind him.

He settled himself down on a stuffed armchair facing away from the bedroom and checked the phone. Somehow, by the grace of God, it wasn't locked. Lestrade checked the phone's history. Texts, calls, everything.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade bit back his startled gasp when he heard Moriarty speak. He hadn't even heard the criminal consultant stir much less approach.

He bit his lip. With his back to Moriarty, it was impossible for the man to see what he had been doing. He could still hide the phone and make up some lie about not being able to sleep. No, Moriarty would see though that in seconds. He silently turned the phone off.

He sighed in defeat and waved Moriarty's phone aloft, throwing a casual glance behind him to see Moriarty's expression. "Trying to crack your password." he lied, pouting. "A few more minutes and I would've had it." He tossed the phone haphazardly and Moriarty instinctively reached after it.

He turned the phone on. Password protected.

"And why would you do that?" he asked Lestrade, strolling up behind him and resting his chin on the DI's shoulder.

"Seemed a bit unfair." Lestrade did a one-shoulder shrug so as to not jostle Moriarty's head. "Seeing as you always crack into my phone to send texts and change my ringtone. I was hoping to retaliate."

"Don't." Moriarty's cool fingers ran along Lestrade's neck, dangerously close to closing around it like a python. "You shouldn't do that, naughty boy." he murmured admonishingly, nosing through the short silver hair just behind Lestrade's ear.

"Quit stealing my phone and we'll call it even." Lestrade suggested, tilting his head back to look Moriarty in the eye, angling himself so that they were less than an inch from kissing. The movement gave Moriarty ample enough space on Lestrade's neck to strangle, as if the copper was daring him to do so.

And for a moment, Moriarty entertained the idea.

"Alright." Moriarty agreed finally. "I'll leave your silly little electronics alone. But don't do anything stupid, Lestrade. Don't make me kill you." he whispered warningly, breath ghosting over Lestrade's lips. "Because I will."

"Well what's stopping you, then?" Lestrade shot back challengingly.

"Nothing." Moriarty hissed back almost soundlessly, tightening his grip almost imperceptively on Lestrade's throat. "Nothing at all." If the copper felt Moriarty's grip tighten, he didn't show it.

Lestrade wordlessly pulled out Moriarty's gun from his jacket pocket and placed it carefully, purposefully slow, onto the armrest so the criminal mastermind would see that he had miscalculated the variables of the situation. Moriarty's eyes followed his every move silently.

"Lets go back to bed, hey, love?" Lestrade smiled softly, removing Moriarty's spider-like hand from his neck and kissing his knuckles gently. "Sorry for waking you."

Moriarty's eyes never left the loaded gun but he smoothed his hands apologetically over Lestrade's shoulders. "Lets." He planted a firm kiss on Lestrade's temple and pulled the DI out of his seat, leading him back to the bedroom.

They did not speak of the incident again.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

"Moriarty." Moriarty stirred a little, batting blindly at the feather-light touches on his face. He heard Lestrade chuckle and felt him roll off the bed beside him. "It's morning, Mister Moriarty." the DI called out brightly.

"Mhm, five more minutes." Moriarty sighed, snuggling further into the bed's warmth.

"That's what you said five minutes ago." Lestrade shot back patiently.

"Really?" Moriarty really didn't remember it.

"Yes, really. Now get up before I come in and get you." Moriarty sensed Lestrade moving around the bed, probably collecting his clothes.

"Oh, please! Come on in!" Moriarty responded, finally blinking his eyes open and lifting the covers. "You're always welcome."

Lestrade was standing by the foot of the bed in one of the hotel's loose, silk bathrobes, patting down his bedhead casually like nothing had transpired the night before. "Mister Moriarty." he sighed. "Do not make me beg."

"You had no problem with it last night." Moriarty couldn't resist the quip as his eyes traveled appreciatively down the sliver of bare skin on Lestrade's chest.

Lestrade's mouth fell open with mock-indignation. "Oh, you cheeky bastard!" He leapt into the bed and pounced onto Moriarty, straddling him and tickling him until the criminal mastermind was shrieking for mercy through his laughter. "How do you like that, then?" he laughed triumphantly.

"I beg clemency!" Moriarty gasped through his giggles. Lestrade sat back on his heels so Moriarty could sit up. "Morning, love." Moriarty greeted him with a kiss.

"Morning yourself." Lestrade smiled back, scooting off the bed in search for his clothes.

"We should go shopping." Moriarty said, frowning a little when Lestrade pulled on the shirt he wore yesterday.

"Yeah, your fault, not letting me go home to pack." Lestrade responded coolly.

"Lets get you a designer suit." Moriarty grinned, wagging his eyebrows eagerly. "I mean, I love your work suits. They're ruggedly handsome, in a way, but I want to primp you up and show you off."

Lestrade sighed mockingly. "If you say so, Mister Moriarty. You're the one paying."

Suddenly, Lestrade's phone chimed with an incoming text. "What is it?" Moriarty asked curiously when Lestrade's face showed a mix of horror and amusement.

"Sherlock's on the tube, caked in blood from head to toe and brandishing a harpoon." Lestrade laughed. "After failing to catch a cab, apparently."

"Understandable." Moriarty giggled back.

"Okay, come on." Lestrade extended his hand to pull Moriarty up. "Seriously, out of bed, you."

Moriarty took the offered hand and with a sudden tug, brought the DI tumbling back onto the bed with a startled yelp. Moriarty rolled halfway onto his chest, pinning him there. "Have I ever told you how sexy you are in a bathrobe?" he murmured with a lazy smile.

Lestrade grinned back. "No, but now's a good a time as any to start, I suppose."

"Hmm, think I'd rather see you out of it, though." Moriarty hummed, planting kisses on his collarbone, plucking at the silky bathrobe material teasingly.

"You are _so_ not a morning person." Lestrade chuckled at him.

"Course not, I love my bed!" Moriarty shot back. "What time is it?"

"Dunno." Lestrade sighed, glancing at his phone. "We have reservations for breakfast at the hotel restaurant at ten." He rolled them over so he was on top. "We've got fifteen minutes. Let's do this."

Moriarty laughed, pupils dilated with lust. "I _do_ love a man on a mission."

* * *

><p>They went shopping that day and ended up not buying a suit, much to Moriarty's disappointment, in favor of more reticent T-shirts and jeans. But they made up for it by invading the local costume shops and trying on various patterns and sequins. Moriarty swept out from behind the changing curtain with a flourish, sporting bright yellow buttons and a wide-brimmed, garish pink hat stuffed up with peacock feathers. He struck a pose and Lestrade decided that he had never laughed so much in his entire life.<p>

"That's horrible!" he gasped, clutching his sides. His hand dipped into his pocket and he snapped a picture on his phone.

"Just don't let the Holmeses get their hands on that!" Moriarty chirped back, doffing his costume and rifling through a multi-coloured clothes rack. "Now, let's try something on you."

Lestrade blanched. "Oh, no..."

* * *

><p>Lestrade kicked absently at the near-white sand on the beach under a palm tree, waiting for Moriary to return from wherever he had disappeared to. He sighed and dropped the paper bag holding both their costumes as he sat straight down on the warm sand.<p>

"Here, hold." Lestrade looked up, blinded momentarily by the bright sun before making out Moriarty's silhouette. Puzzled, Lestrade held out his hands to take whatever Moriarty was trying to pass him.

An icecream cone, Lestrade blinked as Moriarty sat down next to him. "You'll get sand in your clothes if you sit down here." Moriarty pointed out, licking his frozen treat.

Lestrade mimicked his action. "You're sitting down here too." Then, on impulse, he shed his shoes and socks and buried his feet in the hot sand, wiggling his toes, feeling grains of sand sift through them, enthralled.

Moriarty watched him for a moment before following his lead. "You're so easy to entertain." he sighed, shaking his head.

"What's wrong with that?" Lestrade laughed at him. "Once, I caught a constable laughing at someone for farting in public. Course he got in trouble for 'being facecious' on the job, but it was kinda funny." Moriarty looked at him, mortified.

"God help the New Scotland Yard, I can see why Sherlock doesn't hold much hope for them." Moriarty joked, teeth crunching into the sweet's cone.

"Sherlock's got brains and wit. Not sure if he's got a proper sense of humor, though. John's getting him to work on that." Lestrade told him. "Last I heard of his progress, Sherlock made adolescent fun of Mycroft and stole an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. More out of spite though, made John laugh." Lestrade lapped up a wayward drop of melted cream from his sticky fingers.

Moriarty giggled at the thought of Sherlock in Buckingham Palace. They ate their frozen treats in silence.

"Tell me a joke." Lestrade requested suddenly, popping the last crumb of his cone into his mouth.

"I don't do jokes." Moriarty responded, dusting waffle shavings off his hands.

"Tell an un-funny one, then." Lestrade raised an eyebrow challengingly.

Moriarty was silent for a moment. "How do you get a baby out of a blender?"

"Oh, you're horrible!" Lestrade groaned in despair, tipping backward to lay on his back. "You're rubbish!"

"You've heard it before?" Moriarty asked with a smile.

"With a straw. Of course I did, courtesy of Anderson." Lestrade scowled. "Apparently he actually found it amusing. Donovan didn't shag him for ages afterward!"

"Now _that_ is more amusing." Moriarty snorted. "Serves him right."

"Ugh! I've got sand on my back now!" Lestrade whined, sitting up and dusting off his shirt.

"Told you so!" Moriarty piped up. "I did warn you!"

"Yeah." Lestrade groaned, shaking out the back of his shirt. "God, I'm going to be shedding sand all over the hotel when we get back."

Moriarty reached over and dusted a layer of sand off his shoulders. "We'll probably spend the rest of the day dusting you off." he exaggerated with a grimace. Lestrade suddenly batted Moriarty's hands away to pull the shirt off over his head and shook it out. "That works too..." Moriarty tilted his head to the side, allowing his eyes to roam over the DI's newly bared skin.

"You did say something about skinny dipping." Lestrade grinned, nervously swiveling his head to see if there was anybody nearby. Then he shimmied out of his jeans as well. "Come on, Mister Moriarty! If we get caught, I don't want to be the only one ending up in utter humiliation!" He paused for a moment in contemplation before stripping his underpants off and tossing it into his pile of sandy clothes.

He dived into the clear blue waters, treading water as he shook tiny droplets out of his hair. "Come on, Moriarty!" he called out to the still-clothed man on the beach.

Moriarty grinned back at the DI and reached for the hem of his shirt.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

They had swam for the greater part of an hour before dragging themselves out of the water and deposited themselves back into their hotel room, still sopping wet. "No point at all." Moriarty was saying to Lestrade. "We jump in the sea to wash off the sand but come in dripping water!"

Lestrade laughed back. "Still, it was fun." He overcame his chuckles and staggered over into the bedroom, falling face-first onto the bed.

"We almost got caught by the police!" Moriarty whined after him. "I'm the world's only consulting criminal! I refuse to be arrested for bathing naked with a DI! I've got a reputation to keep!"

There was a muffled giggle from the other room. "You had fun too! Don't deny it!" Lestrade called back. "Besides, you're the one always encouraging me to be more impulsive!"

"I've corrupted you!" Moriarty gasped in mock-horror, dragging his feet lazily into the bedroom.

"You, Mister Moriarty," Lestrade murmured endearingly, scooting over to make room for him to lay down. "are poison."

"Mhm, yeah." Moriarty hummed as he climbed onto the bed.

He watched Lestrade doze for a few minutes, watching those eyelashes flutter and alight on his cheeks, his lips parted a fraction in a way that just begged to be kissed. Moriarty blinked, eyes hardening. _Damn him... _Moriarty pressed his lips together. _Damn, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade!_

Damn him for his adorable smile and shy unease, his resigned, understanding sacrifices when it came to selfish geniuses. Damn him for looking so delectable when wet, and don't even get Moriarty started on his scent...

_Damn him! _Moriarty was only vaguely aware that he was clenching his fist hard enough to leave small moon-shaped nail indents on his palms. Damn him for complicating matters! He was getting in the way of his and Sherlock's games like some distraction! This relationship with Lestrade was getting fun. This wasn't supposed to happen! He could've killed Moriarty last night, but didn't. And now he just lay there sleeping so innocently not five inches from Moriarty.

He should've killed him before he let him become involved. Perhaps soon... But not yet. Moriarty slowly opened his fingers, letting out a calming breath. Not yet, it was too soon. He took a deep breath and let the mask of 'casual lover' slide gracefully into place.

They lay and sat in silence before Moriarty reached over to stroke circles and other unique patterns on Lestrade's back with his fingers to get his attention. "Hey." Lestrade grunted sleepily in response. "Hey, I need to tell you something really important." Moriarty said softly.

Lestrade shifted under his fingers to turn his face toward him. "What is it, Mister Moriarty?" he asked, curious.

"After we-..." Moriarty shook his head. "No-... after _you _return to London, I won't be able to contact you for a while." he told Lestrade solemnly.

The DI blinked, letting his words sink in. Then he pushed himself up onto his elbows. "What do you mean, Moriarty?" he demanded, looking from one of Moriarty's dark eyes to the other as if searching for the answer in them.

"I won't be able to call you, text you, or see you for a long time." Moriarty continued, staring at his pale fingers on Lestrade's back.

"Why?" Lestrade questioned, sounding more worried by the moment.

Moriarty's eyes stirred from his fingers and he moved the hand on Lestrade's back to cup his face, steadying it gently to look into his. "I can't tell you." He shook his head. "But I do need to tell you this; the next time we see each other, you'll be snapping handcuffs on my wrists and I don't mean that in a kinky way."

Moriarty could feel Lestrade's jaw tighten against his palm and the DI's lips pressed together. "It's starting, isn't it?" he whispered grimly. "Your games."

Moriarty planted a chaste kiss on his forehead and Lestrade's eyes fluttered closed as the criminal hugged him close. "You said, after the first time we slept together that 'It didn't change anything', us." Lestrade nodded mutely. "And it hasn't. I'll still be lurking in the shadows causing Sherlock trouble and Sherlock will be his brilliant self and you and John Watson will be trailing right behind him, assisting him."

"You could've died the last time you and Sherlock had a 'showdown'." Lestrade bit his lip. "Promise it'll be different this time."

"It _will_ be different." Moriarty promised.

"You and Sherlock won't die, then?" Lestrade asked hopefully. Moriarty was silent for a moment before dropping a kiss into his hair. Lestrade's face fell. "I'll take that as a definite 'Probably not'. You do realize that it's going to be me who zips up your body bag if you die." he said with a slight accusation in his voice.

"You and I are from the opposite sides of the battlefield. Angels and Demons." Moriarty told him. "You're not an idiot, no matter what Sherlock says, you knew this time would come. That's why you won't fall in love with me. We're just friends with benefits, remember?" he reminded Lestrade.

"We're going to kill each other one day." Lestrade choked and it took a moment for Moriarty to realize the man was pressing his eyes closed, making a strong effort not to tear up.

"We're poison." Moriarty whispered back, mimicking what Lestrade had told him not minutes earlier.

Lestrade pulled back to stare at his face, as if memorizing every inch of it, every detail. Then he broke his gaze to look at the bedside clock. "We should get ready. Else the carnival start without us." he said in a forced light-hearted tone entirely mismatched by the current atmosphere. "Come on!" He clambered off the bed and snagged his costume from the shopping bag before disappearing behind the changing screen.

He didn't once make eye contact.

* * *

><p>"Moriarty, it's a carnival! Not Halloween!" whined the costumed character decked out in royal blue jacket with black spades on its lapels and silver breeches as he adjusted the plumed tricorned cap on his head.<p>

"What's a good costume if it doesn't give a good scare?" The ominous figure of a beaked plague-doctor mask draped in billowy black capes responded. He flourished as he wrapped a few red-splotched, raggedy bandages around him to give off a horrifying effect.

The spaded gentleman scratched awkwardly at his ivory half-faced, bauta gilded with fake jewels and gold-coloured leafy vines. "But alot of people will be wearing that same costume, I thought would've liked to stand out."

"The masks are supposed to hide your identity, not to make you stand out." The plague doctor shot back, rubbing a little at the small crystal disks covering the eye holes of his mask. "Ready?"

"No, not really." the gentleman responded, distractedly staring out at the streets where celebrators were already beginning to take up space. "What if I lose you in the crowd?" he asked uneasily.

The ghostly appartition let out a chuckle from behind his mask, grabbing the gentleman's gloved hand in a firm grip with his bandaged one. "Then don't let go." And he pulled him out into the cobblestone streets as colour and music began wafting up around them.

"Jesus Christ..." the gentleman gasped like a wide-eyed child on Christmas morning as they cantered down the street hand-in-hand. "You know what I said about this not being Halloween?" The plague-doctor grunted to signify his attention. "I was wrong!"

A handsome couple decked in gold sequins and yards of thick, billowy red cloth swept past them, tossing streamers and handfuls of glitter into the air. A few agile men in tight-fitting jesters costumes flipped and somersulted, juggling apples and occassionally blowing fire. "Woah! Did you see that!" The plague-doctor affectionately watched his enthralled companion as he giddily pointed out the most lavish and ridiculous hats he could spot out, laughing at their flamboyancy.

You almost couldn't imagine this bright, eager gentleman and the dull, world-weary Detective Inspector as one and the same man. This gentleman here, now, was Moriarty's alone.

A sudden urge rushed through the plague-doctor's veins, a new obsession to observe that side of DI Lestrade that nobody else knew about. His wild rage, innocent eagerness, the sensual beast in his bed. Sherlock could have the boring DI, this vision was _his_. He gripped the gentleman's hand firmly and tugged him clumsily into a dark side alley. "What, ...Moriarty!" the gentlemen yelped, startled when he was shoved up against the damp, cold wall of the alley.

Moriarty grabbed the beak of his plague-doctor's mask and pushed it up into his hair, sweeping back his hood with it before lustily crushing their lips together in a hot, messy kiss with tongues, teeth and desperately wandering hands.

"T-talk about spontaneous." Lestrade gasped breathlessly as Moriarty tugged at his hair, tilting the DI's head back for more access to his neck. Moriarty pulled aside a handful of Lestrade's lacey cravat to lick and suck at his artery and adam's apple, causing Lestrade's breath to hitch.

"God, I'm glad you're wearing a mask." Moriarty murmured huskily against his sensitive skin. "You're gorgeous."

"You worried someone might try to pick me up?" Lestrade teased, Moriarty just grunted back with a grin. "Hey. Patience, love." Lestrade chuckled into his ear and pulled away, dancing just out of reach when the criminal mastermind had tried to reach for his belt.

"Tease." Moriarty pouted, trailing after him.

"Oi, look! Fireworks!" Lestrade pointed to the glittery sparks in the distance, Moriarty's eyes lit up with delight.

"Oooh! Let's go see!" he exclaimed eagerly, dragging Lestrade along by his arm.

"Just hold on a moment! My phone's ringing!" Lestrade called after him, fishing around in his jacket pockets for the communications device.

"Oh, okay! Catch up with me, yeah?" Moriarty yelled impatiently over the noise, letting Lestrade's hand slip out of his grip as he disappeared into the crowd.

Lestrade flipped open his mobile and frowned grimly. "Bugger! Moriarty!" he called out, looking up.

He was alone.

"Goddamit!" he cursed under his breath, carding a hand through his hair, knocking his hat off in the process. "Fuck!"

* * *

><p>Moriarty flew back to where he left Lestrade last, the DI promised to catch up with him but he seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth! He found the alley they had snogged in earlier and looked around, head swiveling. "DI Lestrade!" he called out, cupping a hand around his mouth.<p>

Then he remembered his mobile, he should call Lestrade, see where he was. "Shit!" He worried his lip. Seven missed calls from Lestrade in the last half-hour. There was also a text waiting for him. In all the excitement and commotion, it wasn't exactly a wonder how Moriarty hadn't felt or heard his mobile stir.

He opened the text. _Holmes induced emergency. Gone back to London. Call next time I catch a break. Had a great vacation! Have fun at the carnival, wish I could still be there! -Lestrade_

Moriarty felt a pang of disappointment before crushing it with a start. Disappointment implied expectations, Moriarty certainly didn't have any of that for Lestrade...

Did he?

He sighed, watching the party-ers in the streets, his excitement died down. He didn't come here to party with them, he had wanted to show this to Lestrade! He glowered at a masked couple kissing drunkenly in a corner, giggling girlishly and talking sweet nonsense in each other's ears. Normal, boring humans and their silly little habits. Sickening, really. He stalked away before he had the urge to kill something.

He doffed his costume and changed into his casual clothes before returning to their-... _his_ hotel room. He unlocked the door with his keycard and threw the door open.

What he saw in his lounge made him stop short.

"Mycroft Holmes." He put on a smile, proceeding into the suite leisurely. "Wasn't expecting you so soon." he crooned.

Mycroft was sitting in one of the stuffed armchairs facing the door with his back to the windows, legs crossed, poised, hands folded almost daintily on his lap. His umbrella stood leaning against the coffee table at his knee. The government agent's eyes were dark and his lips pressed together in a picture of utter grimness. "Mister Moriarty." he said civily. "Lets have a chat."

Two of Mycroft's men appeared in the doorway from the hall, closing off Moriarty's only escape.

Moriarty easily raised his hands in a gesture of unconditional surrender. "Oh, don't worry, Mister Holmes. I'm not going anywhere." He smiled, teeth and all.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Finding Sherlock and John single-handedly out at Dartmoor might seem a bit of an intimidating endeavor seeing as the village itself was situated in the middle of nowhere, but Lestrade prided himself to be a bit of a professional on the task. "Hello." he greeted a waiter clearing tables outside a pub.

"Can I help you?" the man asked with a nervous smile.

"Ah, yeah." Lestrade removed his sunglasses, felt silly wearing them but Moriarty bought them for him for protection against the bright Venetian sun so he wore them. "Did you happen to see a tall, scarecrow of a madman, bit rude, with a more decent blonde bloke trailing after him?" Yep, finding Sherlock 101: ask around for the smartest, rudest, tallest man with insane hair. Success rate is at a hundred percent.

The waiter looked like he knew exactly who Lestrade was referring to. "Oh, you mean those two? Kept asking strange questions about the Baskerville hound." Bingo.

Lestrade's eyes sharpened and he flashed his credentials. "Mind elaborating on that, mate?"

* * *

><p>"What the <em>Hell <em>are you doing here!" Lestrade jumped like a guilty little cop with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. At least Sherlock didn't actually walk in on him carrying out his investigations since it wasn't officially _his_ case.

"Well nice to see you too." Lestrade drawled, biting back the 'A hello wouldn't go amiss'. "I'm on a holiday, would you believe?"

"No." Sherlock glowered. "I wouldn't."

"Hello, John." Lestrade nodded when the man entered the pub after his friend and approached them.

"Greg." John greeted back with a small smile. Sherlock sent his blogger a puzzled look like he thought the two were speaking in some kind of code for no reason at all.

"I heard you were in the area, what are you up to?" Lestrade carried on. "You here for this 'Hound of Hell' like on the telly? There was a fair bit of skeptisim in his voice.

Sherlock was unimpressed. "I'm waiting for an explanation Inspector, _why_ are you here?" he demanded.

"I've told you 'I'm on holiday'!" the copper sighed.

"You're brown as a nut!" Sherlock expelled impatiently. "You're clearly just back from your holidays!"

_Uuuh, oh. Busted. Why not just deduce that I've also been shagging your enemy while at it? _Lestrade deadpanned. "Well... maybe I fancied another one." Okay, not exactly a shining example of quick thinking.

"Oh, this is Mycroft isn't it?" Sherlock groaned, irate. John looked at Sherlock quickly.

"Now look-..." Lestrade reached for the pint the bartender readied for him.

Sherlock cut him off, raising his voice in childish annoyance. "Of course it is! One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my _handler_ to - to spy on me-... _incognito_!" Was Sherlock laughing at him? "Is that why you're calling yourself 'Greg'?" Sherlock scoffed.

John looked at him. "That's his name!" he told his flatmate reprimandingly, pointing at Lestrade, incredulous of his flatmate's ignorance.

"Is it?" Sherlock seemed honestly surprised.

Ouch... that one kind of stung. "Yes, you've never bothered to find out." Lestrade intoned accusingly. "Look, I'm not your handler. And I don't just do what your brother tells me." Of course, he wasn't convincing anyone of that anytime soon.

"Actually, you could be just the man we want." John told him, eyes narrowed a little in concentration.

Lestrade paused midsip, knowing not to trust a tone like that. "Why?" Sherlock asked.

"I've not been idle, Sherlock, I think I might've found something." The doctor said, reaching into his pants pocket. "Here, didn't know if it was relevant. Still, looks like it might be." He smoothed the folded paper out and showed it to Sherlock. "That, is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant." John and Sherlock shared a look.

"Excellent." Sherlock murmured.

"Nice, scary inspector from Scotland Yard, could put in a few calls, might come in very handy." John smiled innocently.

Well, if that was all John was going to ask of him... Lestrade almost sighed in relief. Much worse could be expected from Sherlock he supposed.

* * *

><p>The first thing Lestrade thought when he heard the terrifying hound's howl was 'My God, I just came from up there!', the next thing was 'Oh, no. It's coming down here, isn't it?' If there was one supernatural thing that Lestrade believed in, it wasn't fate, it wasn't guardian angels, it was his bad luck.<p>

"Sherlock." John called out nervously.

Henry was beginning to shout and screech like an upset banshee and Sherlock was doing his best to calm him through his own shaking limbs.

"Are you seeing this?" John asked, flashing his torch in Lestrade's face. Lestrade's bloodless cheeks answered better than the man himself could. "Alright, he is not drugged, Sherlock, so what's that?" John at least sounded a little calmer than that Henry fellow. Good old doctor, always the voice of reason. "What is it!" John shouted when Sherlock didn't respond the first time.

"Alright! It's still here!" Sherlock retorted, flashlight and eyes still trained on the craig above them. "But it's just a dog! Henry!" He turned to the terrified young man. "It's nothing more than an ordinary dog!"

"... God!" Lestrade almost groaned when the hound began stalking down the knoll toward them. It took a gigantic leap and covered about half the distance between them. "Aw! Christ!" He reached for his gun.

It had glowing red eyes like the legends said and its fur was a glossy black, its teeth were large and menancing as it roared. Lestrade had never seen a more horrifying canine.

A shadowy figure of a man ghosted out from the mist near Sherlock and the consulting detective pounced, drawing Lestrade's attention to him. The man standing there in the rugged countryside of Dartmoor, with immaculate suit, umbrella, and icy gaze was Mycroft.

He seemed to ignore Sherlock, looking straight at Lestrade, eyes boring through him to read his soul, a disappointed look on his face. _Oh, Gods... _Lestrade thought, suddenly feeling rather ill. He knew about Moriarty.

Mycroft Holmes who holds a minor position of the British Government was going to destroy him painfully and without hesitation. No doubt about it.

Sherlock had the government agent by the lapels, his breathing was shallow and ragged. "No! Not you!" he was shouting and... by God, he was actually scared.

Then suddenly, as if hearing a clap of thunder, he stopped still. "The fog." he gasped.

"What?" John called back, still keeping a sharp eye on the hound.

"It's the fog! The drug is in the fog!" Sherlock's voice cracked but carried.

He was back to firing off deductions a-mile-a-minute but Lestrade barely heard any of it, much less understood. All he caught on to was that the fog was somehow poisonous, he quickly covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve.

"For God's sakes! Kill it!" Dr. Frankland screamed, terrified at the hound. Lestrade briefly wondered when he had arrived. "Kill it!"

Lestrade whirled around, gun expertly raised, ready to shoot the monster. But it was gone. _"We both know you won't shoot me." _The apparation of Moriarty grinned at him lazily, hands in his pockets, toeing at some dried root on the ground. _"You don't have it in you." _Lestrade gritted his teeth and squeezed the trigger but, like Moriarty predicted, the bullets shot wide.

Luckily, John had better aim and valor than he did. Moriarty's steps stuttered to a halt and he stood for a moment, swaying, staring at John. Then he looked down at the blood beginning to seep into his suit as if realizing for the first time, that he was dying. He looked back up at Lestrade. "_You're not stupid, you knew this day would come. We're poison, Lestrade." _Then he collapsed to his knees and fell onto his side, eyes wide and hollow.

Dead. Lestrade nearly vomited right then and there.

"Look at it, Henry!" Sherlock was ordering the young man, dragging him over to the site.

Lestrade followed their progress until they reached Moriarty's motionless body. It was just a dog. Lestrade ruefully rubbed a clammy hand over his face, letting out a shuddering breath. It was just a dog. Moriarty wasn't dead, and Mycroft was not in Dartmoor.

Lestrade was broken out of his panicked realizations by Henry letting out a roar and plummeling down Dr. Frankland. Ah, well, a cop's job is never done. He ran over and wrestled back the adrenalin high young man. He stood back and let Sherlock speak, to fill them in on what they'd all missed, dazzle them with his great smarts.

And right when Lestrade thought the case was finished, the hound reared its ugly head again. The snarl took him clear by surprise, everybody's hearts stopped collectively and they whirled around. John was the first to react with a few quick, well aimed shots to ensure the beast was dead.

Dr. Frankland took that opportunity to make a mad dash and everybody set chase. "It's no use, Frankland!" Sherlock was calling somewhere up ahead. Lestrade vaguely made out Dr. Frankland through the trees, climbing over the barbed wire fence into the danger zone and his heart sank. They're not called danger zones for nothing.

A few seconds later and a huge pillar of fire exploded from the danger zone and everybody instinctively ducked.

It was a horrible way to go, Lestrade had to think as he watched everything Dr. Frankland was, literaly go up in flames. He panted, regaining his breath, rubbing a hand over his face again. God, he'd give almost anything to be in Venice watching fireworks.

* * *

><p>"Leaving already?" John asked when he saw Lestrade grab his coat and head for the pub's exit. They had all returned to the village to clean up, get some rest and calm their nerves.<p>

"Yeah, got reports to file, death certificates to prepare, cases to close. Dr. Frankland's body isn't going to clean itself up." Lestrade sighed back wryly.

"Some holiday." John joked, eyebrows raised.

"Some holiday." Lestrade agreed wholeheartedly. "Anyway, Met gave a call, they're coming out here to clean up, you and Sherlock should be gone by that time. I've got to be back in London ASAP." He waved his car keys aloft.

"Okay, but you should give it a little rest. Don't push yourself. Stop at any signs of abnormality. We're still not sure of the full effects of the drug, don't want you to go causing a car crash." John smiled at him.

Lestrade smiled back. "Okay, look after Sherlock." He waved and left the pub.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

He collapsed into his car seat and let out a weary sigh. All he wanted now was a good shot of strong whisky and his bed. He turned the keys in the ignition switch and pulled out onto the road. He had only been driving for about an hour before he felt sleep pull at his eyelids. He shook his head to rouse himself a little.

It didn't work. Ten minutes later and he was drifting dangerously off again so he decided to pull off the road and take a little rest. His sleep was fitful at best that night, he was only able to get a few snatches of it before it slipped through his fingers.

He dreamt too, had nightmares that would probably haunt him even in his waking moments.

* * *

><p>The first time he closed his eyes, he found himself in a sterilized white room with an equally clean white chair set in the middle of it, facing away from the door. He had wandered about the perimeters of the room for a few minutes, trying the doorknob to find it locked. Okay, so 'cell' might be a better description of the place rather than 'room'.<p>

The door suddenly clanged open and two suited men entered, wordlessly taking Lestrade by the shoulders and setting him down roughly into the chair. He heard footsteps behind him, pacing. Sharp, even steps, relaxed in such a way that left no doubt that Time itself could not hurry them. "DI Lestrade." Lestrade startled at his name being called out.

It was Mycroft standing at his back. Lestrade strained to turn around to see the man but the restricting grips on his shoulders prevented him. He could not see Mycroft. "What is it, Mister Holmes? What's going on?" he shouted at the man behind him.

He more felt, rather than heard the footsteps halt prescisely behind him and Mycroft leaned down to whisper menancingly. "You tell me." Lestrade shivered at the ice in his voice and remembered the last time Mycroft said those words to him.

It was after Lestrade had first met Moriarty. An unshakable terror seemed to grip his insides with an unforgiving grasp.

"Tell you what?" Lestrade asked him uneasily.

Mycroft resumed his pacing. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, DI Lestrade. Don't waste my time."

Lestrade felt his lower lip tremble a little in fear too strong to hide and saw his hands doing the same although Mycroft's men were holding them down, pinning them against the metal armrests of the chair. "What do you want me to say?" Lestrade spat defiantly.

"I want you to tell me why. Why you're... in bed with the Devil, so to speak." Mycroft sneered condescendingly.

Lestrade's eyes fell closed. So Mycroft, in his darkest of nightmares, knew about Moriarty. Was this his own psyche warning him what might happen if Mycroft ever _did_ find out? "DI Lestrade," Mycroft said, taking Lestrade's silence as stubborn defiance. "don't make this hard on yourself."

There was a hair-raising crackle behind Lestrade and electric agony rushed through his every muscle from the point between his shoulder blades, causing him to convulse and curl into himself whimpering against the pain.

"Jim Moriarty, DI Lestrade." Mycroft said remindingly. "Speak. No need to ask permission." Again the torture device was applied, this time to Lestrade's lower back. Lestrade let out a frightful yell and tried to arch away from the point of contact but the two men holding him made that impossible to do.

Another crackle and pain errupted from Lestrade's left arm, causing him to cry out again and drop his head onto his chest, panting.

Mycroft finally moved into Lestrade's line of vision. He was holding a TASER in his right hand and his umbrella in his left. God, did he not even let go of that thing when he was busy torturing Lestrade?

The torture continued for roughly ten more minutes.

Mycroft sighed at Lestrade impatiently and handed his TASER to one of the two men holding Lestrade down. He leaned in close to the trembling Lestrade. "Very well, seeing as you will not speak, I will."

Lestrade squinted at Mycroft through his pain-induced haze and bit his lip apprehensively. "You are a traitor, DI Lestrade." Mycroft told him imperiously. "A traitor to your profession, to Sherlock, to your own morals, and to me. You are one of the few people on earth Sherlock trusts, I entrusted you with the task to look after him, not to bed his enemies." Mycroft took Lestrade's chin in his unforgiving grasp and forced him to look him in the eye. "You betrayed Sherlock and you betrayed yourself for a few pity shags from a madman who would just as quickly kill you as he would kiss you. Tell me DI Lestrade, was it worth it?"

For some reason, Lestrade's eyes were drawn to the one-way mirror behind Mycroft and he knew, or more, felt who was behind that glass. Like someone had removed the glass for the sole purpose of Lestrade seeing his observers. Donovan and Anderson were watching, both with looks of disgust and grave disappointment on their faces as Sherlock and John stood beside them like vultures waiting to pick apart his bones, laying all his sins bare.

He had never felt more scared or vulnerable in his life.

Lestrade was speechless, unable and unwilling to say anything in his own defense. Mycroft just stepped back with a sigh. Then he pulled out a gun and pressed it to Lestrade's forehead. "I cannot have liabilities so close to Sherlock." Mycroft said. "Pity, we were getting along so well."

He squeezed the trigger.

* * *

><p>Lestrade shot up in his car seat, screaming and dripping with sweat. He pressed his forehead into the steering wheel and closed his eyes, whimpering, trying to calm his ragged breaths. He realized tears were streaming down his face.<p>

He hastily brushed them away from his cheeks and calmed his breathing. He checked his watch. Morning was still a long way off. God! John wasn't kidding about the drug's after-effects.

He felt like he never wanted to sleep again. Yet-... his body betrayed him, slouching deeper into his seat, eyelids blinking closed.

Moriarty, Sherlock, New Scotland Yard... He was just a bit tired with all that was going on.

He fell back asleep.

* * *

><p>Lestrade opened his eyes and blinked almost uncomprehendingly. He was lying in a warm, comfortable bed with the sun dripping over his skin. He knew this place, this was the hotel room he shared with Moriarty in Venice.<p>

God, Venice. Lestrade's two days of Heaven.

"Morning, love." drawled a sleepy voice next to him as Moriarty rolled sleepily onto his side to throw an arm over Lestrade's chest before promptly falling back asleep.

"Hey, you." Lestrade choked back, almost crying at the sheer wonderfulness of this dream in comparison to his misadventure with his dreamt-up Mycroft. _God, _he thought,_ Mycroft could torture me for years and I'd never give up this._ He stroked Moriarty's hair softly.

It was always like this with Moriarty. The criminal mastermind was not a morning person by any stretch of imagination while, Lestrade was. And it wasn't uncommon for him to wake up before Moriarty, just relishing their shared body warmth. Lestrade watched Moriarty sleep for a few minutes before getting up to shower.

Lestrade always showered before Moriarty fully woke up and would be back in the room by the time he did. Moriarty always ended up coaxing him back to bed when he returned, saying that it was unfair for Lestrade to come in with his hair still damp and skin smelling of fresh soap, he couldn't resist that.

He looked around for a towel and found one on the floor, corner poking shyly out of the next room lounge. He smiled, Moriarty had probably thrown it there in one of his childish bouts of boredom. It was amusing, really, what he sometimes did for entertainment.

Or maybe it was his doing, to lure Moriarty from the lounge into the bedroom after a shower...

He reached down and picked it up, shaking it out a little. Then he saw it. A silky ribbon of blood on the floor of the lounge only a stone's throw from where he was standing.

He gasped a little, quickly clapping a hand over his mouth to keep any noise from escaping his mouth. He glanced over at Moriarty who was still sleeping like a baby, undisrupted.

He sidled around the furniture to approach the puddle of blood and stopped dead still when he saw a motionless pair of feet poking out from behind the sofa. He knew those smart, tailored shoes.

_Sherlock._

Lestrade let out a silent, horrified gasp and rushed over to the body, feeling ill. Sherlock was lying on his back, arms splayed, palms upturned, his eyes open, grey eyes dead and staring, transfixed, at the chandelier suspended above his head. There was a round glass paperweight on the floor beside the body, covered in blood, an illustration of London's landscape under the red coating. Sherlock had been brutally clubbed to death.

Lestrade staggered dazedly and leaned on the back of the sofa for support as he covered his mouth and nose, pressing his lips together, struggling to get his breathing under control.

John probably would've come with him. His mind supplied unhelpfully.

_Oh, God, not John. Please not John. _Lestrade silently begged as he looked around for any sign of the doctor. The door of the suite was ajar, beckoning Lestrade to proceed through it.

Lestrade gulped and stepped carefully around Sherlock's body.

He found John outside the suite, just down the carpeted hall, propped up against the wall. He was bloody, but breathing, thank God. Lestrade let out a sigh of relief and rushed to the man's aid, no longer caring what anybody would think when they find out about him and Moriarty.

He just wanted-... _needed _to save John. John who had stumbled onto Sherlock and a life solving crime by accident. John who shouldn't have been involved with someone like Moriarty at all. John who was a decent bloke who had done nothing to deserve an end like this, save meeting Sherlock. John who cared about the bloody consulting detective like nobody else could.

He skidded to a halt in front of John, collapsing to his knees. "John! John, mate! Can you hear me? Respond!" He fought the urge to vomit. Sherlock and John wouldn't be here now, dead and dying, if Lestrade simply had the presence of mind to lock Moriarty away the moment he had separated him from Sebastian.

John gave a weak groan and his eyes flickered open. "Mm, Shr'lck?" he whimpered, causing a few drops of blood to pour out from between his pale lips.

"No, actually, bad idea. Don't talk!" Lestrade said panicking, quickly applying pressure to where he believed the source of all the blood was. "God, John, I'm so sorry! Just wait, I need to call an ambulance!"

He patted his pockets down before realizing that his phone was still on the nightstand by Moriarty's bed. He bit his lip. John needed that ambulance now! There was no phone in the hall, he'd have to risk sneaking back into the bedroom. He sat back on his heels to stand when he felt the barrel of a gun dig suddenly into the flesh between his shoulderblades.

He froze. "What are you doing out of bed, love?" Moriarty drawled lazily into his ear.

Lestrade's head whipped around so quickly that he vaguely wondered if his neck would just snap off in that moment. Moriarty was leaning against him, spooning him almost, his chin resting comfortably on Lestrade's shoulder. He could feel the man's body heat on his back save the slight space preserved for the gun against his spine.

Not half-an-inch away from Moriarty's face and Lestrade still couldn't make out his eye colour. Random thing to think, Lestrade thought. "Mister Moriarty-...!" he choked stiffly.

"Hm, I was bored." Moriarty told him casually, far too casually. "I killed them while you slept." he smiled, staring facinatedly at the blood on John's body. "I like watching you sleep." he admitted absently.

John seemed to sense Moriarty's presence and coughed, prying his eyes open. _No, John! Stay still, for God's sakes!_ Lestrade begged him mentally.

"Oh?" Moriarty blinked. "This one is still alive? He's a stubborn pet, isn't he?" The gun was removed from Lestrade's back.

"Moriarty, please-...!" Lestrade gasped pleadingly.

Moriarty pointed the gun at John's forehead. "Good bye!" he sing-songed.

Lestrade threw his weight suddenly against Moriarty, knocking them both over, Moriarty's shot skimmed the wall and ricocheted into the ceiling. Lestrade took Moriarty's shock as an opportunity and punched him with all his might.

Moriarty responded heatedly by pistol-whipping him hard, rolling them over until he was on top, straddling Lestrade on the ground. "A bit early to be playing rough, isn't it, darling?" he smirked, his tongue flicking out, lapping gingerly at the blood accumulating at the corner of his mouth.

Lestrade kicked and thrashed under his weight, once managing to clip Moriarty upside the head before the consulting criminal pinned both his wrists to the floor, headbutting him for good measure. "That knock some sense into you?" Moriarty then turned his torso away from Lestrade, looking toward John. Lestrade didn't see it, but he certainly heard the gunshot and John's body fall with a muffled thump on the carpet.

White-hot pain exploded in Lestrade's mind and chest and he squeezed his eyes shut against it, still resisting weakly until his strength gave way to shock and greif, numbing him. His body fell limp under Moriarty and he lay gasping for breath for a moment or two.

Moriarty leaned down and kissed the bruise growing on his forehead. "Sorry, darling." he murmured softly, genuinely? Lestrade could never tell with him. He lapped up a bead of sweat on Lestrade's temple. "Sorry, you know how I get when I'm bored."

"You're not sorry about Sherlock." Lestrade spat, straining a little against Moriarty's grip on his wrists. "Or John."

"I'm not sorry for anything else." Moriarty told him with that voice made for sin. "Forgive me?"

"You killed him." Lestrade whispered, full realization finally cutting through his numb haze, replacing it with horror and repulsion. "No - no, get off me, Mister Moriarty! You killed them!" His voice raised a few notches, distress evident in it as he struggled.

"So?" Moriarty asked him innocently, trailing the hot barrel of his gun down Lestrade's heaving chest. "You know I kill people. Why is it such a shock to you?"

Lestrade stilled at that. It was true, he knew Moriarty was a killer, he practically told him himself that either he or Sherlock would be dead at the close of his oncoming game. Lestrade didn't think much of it then, he was so blinded by Moriarty's mellowed voice and his gentle touches, his tender affections.

_Fake. All fake._ His mind taunted him. _And you knew it. You just didn't want to believe it. You bloody fool. Now Sherlock and John are dead because of you._

"No." Lestrade shook his head tiredly with a humorless chuckle. "No, it's not a shock." He then looked Moriarty in the eye. "You're under arrest, Mister Jim Moriarty, for the murder of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

Moriarty's eyebrows raised a few inches a moment before Lestrade kicked up, catching Moriarty off guard, kneeing him in the back, knocking him off balance just enough to roll them over. Lestrade pulled his fist back before savagely punching Moriarty in the jaw.

Moriarty fell sprawled, his gun skittered across the floor a few feet away. Then he punched right back.

Their scuffle continued for a few seconds before Moriarty flattened Lestrade on the ground again, his hands held a vice-like grip on the DI's throat and his face contorted grossly into an enraged expression like Lestrade had never seen before. It was something horrifying and ugly. Lestrade almost couldn't recognize him.

Lestrade clawed futily at the hands squeezing his neck before realizing the helplessness of his situation. His vision darkened at the edges and he flailed his hands about, cutting Moriarty's eyebrow by luck alone.

Then he felt it. Moriarty's gun was somewhere near his head and he had brushed his hand against it. He turned his head as far as he could and saw it in his peripherals. He shot his hand out and snagged it with the tips of his fingers before turning around, bringing the gun between himself and Moriarty.

_Bang!_

* * *

><p>Lestrade shot up again, wide awake, taking a few moments to remember where he was. He was still in his chilly car on a deserted road in Dartmoor on his way back to London.<p>

No sterile white cell, no Venice. No Mycroft, no Moriarty. Lestrade rested his forehead against his steering wheel with a sob of relief as he watched the sun begin to peek over the hills and brilliant rays of sunlight crawled over the green toward him. It was beautiful, but so very horrible.

_We're going to kill each other. We're poison. _Moriarty's voice echoed chillingly into his memory. _Nothing's to stop us. Nothing at all._

God, he had never wanted to see dreary old London so badly in his life.

* * *

><p>Mycroft stepped up to the one-way glass adjoining the cell, carefully watching the criminal mastermind on the other side. Moriarty's eyeballs twitched and shifted slightly under their closed lids. They flickered open when one of Mycroft's men opened the cell door.<p>

"Alright. Let him go." Mycroft ordered with no small displeasure.

Moriarty stared at the one-way glass, not seeing Mycroft, but undeniably knowing he was there. Then he was called out of the cell by Mycroft's subordinate. The madman sent one last smile at the mirror and walked out.

Mycroft pressed his lips together as he traced the scratch marks Moriarty had made on the glass. _Sherlock. _The consulting criminal's obsession with his little brother was worrying to say in the least.

Moriarty had laid a plan out for Sherlock, for their games, and Mycroft was near helpless to do anything about it.

He hardened his gaze and gripped the handle of his umbrella tight as he pulled his hand away from the cool glass. He took one last look at Moriarty's cell and exited the room.

* * *

><p>AN: Sherlock was killed with a paperweight illustrating London's landscape. I know, horrible, arn't I? Kill me now! Maybe Lestrade's just a little bit prophetic...

And having Moriarty strangle Lestrade before he shot him... something they might've done on their first night in Venice... Anyway! Just me rambling to myself!


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

A few weeks passed since Venice and not a peep from Jim Moriarty. Lestrade yawned as he entered his favorite cafe to get his morning cup of coffee and a breakfast composed of doughnuts. He smiled gratefully to the elderly barista on the other side of the counter as he recieved his order packed neatly away in a brown paper bag. "Good luck today, Greg." The barista smiled brightly.

_Always._ Lestrade's smile only broadened. Always a cheery, 'Good luck today, Greg.' it was like Lestrade's good luck charm for the day. Lestrade had known the barista since day one as a constable and used to constantly come to complain a bit about his work and collegues.

"See ya!" Lestrade waved back. He always did. The small cafe was only about a five minute walk from the station and Lestrade would frequent the place at least twice a day, if not, more. The barista would often joke that Lestrade's loyalty to the place and his addiction to coffee were the only things keeping the shop from bankrupting.

Lestrade jogged the rest of the way to the New Scotland Yard, careful not to spill his precious caffiene. "Morning!" he hollered to Donovan in passing before shutting himself up in his office, eager to dig in.

He had only gotten through half a doughnut before his phone chimed. He stared at the vibrating little gadget on his desk, absently wondering if the world would explode if he didn't respond to it. He popped the rest of the doughnut into his mouth and licked a crumb off his finger before picking it up.

A new text. Lestrade opened it. _Hello, sexy. -M_

Lestrade froze midchew, a combination of excitement and dread filling his chest. Moriarty was back. He stared at his phone for a few minutes, waiting to see if Moriarty was going to send any other message. He didn't, so Lestrade returned to his sweet breakfast, deep in thought.

Suddenly, all the excitement for the day had grounded to a stop, waiting for Lestrade to make up his mind whether to be happy that Moriarty was back, or wary. Lestrade always hated it when he wasn't sure what to feel in strange situations. He reached for another doughnut and took a hearty bite.

Suddenly the door to his office opened and Donovan poked her head in. "Sir, there's been a break-in!" she announced.

"Not our division!" Lestrade shot back quickly. They were the bloody homicide division! Even Anderson knew that!

"You'll want it." Donovan told him grimly.

Lestrade pressed his lips together as he jumped up. Sherlock? Or Moriarty?

* * *

><p>Moriarty, it seemed. Lestrade gripped the steering wheel and chewed his lip agitatedly as Donovan took call after call, in turn, telling him that together with the Tower of London, the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison had also fallen to Moriarty's schemings.<p>

The three most secure government buildings in England. What the Hell was Moriarty up to? Lestrade throught as he brought the car to a screeching halt outside the Jewel House and rushed to the scene. He hastily flashed his credentials to a few officers-in-charge and was let through to the display area with Donovan on his heels. He pushed the doors open and dashed in, stopping short at the incredible sight in front of him.

Moriarty was sitting on the throne, eyes closed serenely. And... my God, he was wearing the Crown Jewels. He looked ridiculous... but not too much. He actually kind of matched wearing the Jewels in a mad sort of way. He seemed sort of like a twisted parody of the Mad Hatter, waiting to show everybody the way deeper into his mad world of Wonderland.

Lestrade was taken aback by the utter hilarity of the situation and nearly burst out laughing, his self-restraint alone keeping his face straight.

Moriarty seemed to sense his arrival through the music blaring in his ears and opened his eyes with a slight smile and unconcerned air. "No rush." he drawled loftily.

Lestrade stood frozen for a moment, a little stunned at the sudden familiarity of his gaze and dark, abysmal eyes. Overcoming his thrill, he schooled his expression into something grimmer and turned to Donovan with a sigh. "Alright, get those off him." he said, nodding toward the Crown Jewels.

Once the jewelery and ceremonial robes were removed from Moriarty's person, Lestrade approached him and cautioned him, clapping a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. Moriarty watched his every move and smiled a bit, even winking at him when they wern't being too closely watched for their exchange to be noticed.

Moriarty was right... like always. The first time they meet in several months and Lestrade handcuffs him... not in a kinky way. Although, taking Moriarty's look into consideration, it wasn't really 'purely procedural' to him. He looked a bit amused and flicked his tongue out, moistening his lips with a feral grin.

Lestrade just rolled his eyes exasperatedly back at the criminal mastermind and bundled him into the backseat of one of the awaiting cars.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was standing against the wall near where John was sitting in the gallery of the courtroom, his arms crossed and his expression grim. He stared accusingly at the back of the defendant's head, really wishing he knew what exactly was going on in that strange mind of his.<p>

Moriarty knew he was there, their eyes had met once when he was led into the courtroom. But during the trial, he never once turned to look back at him. He had turned, once, and Lestrade had just stood frozen. But, Moriarty didn't seem to remember his presence.

He looked straight at John and smirked. Of course, Sherlock's eyes and ears on the trial. Lestrade was torn between being utterly relieved and slightly disappointed.

Sherlock was called into the witness stand, distracting Lestrade from the motionless defendant. Sherlock looked bored and a fair bit annoyed. Not good. Lestrade sighed and ran his gaze over the rest of the gallery's occupants.

Mycroft Holmes was seated near the back close by one of the exits, his legs crossed and his lips pinched as if willing Sherlock not to do anything rash.

...Sherlock, seeing the look and conversing with the judge for all of twenty seconds, could not resist.

* * *

><p>"Detective Inspector Lestrade." Lestrade was just on his way out of the Yard when he heard the voice of Mycroft Holmes calling out to him. He turned. "A moment, if I may?"<p>

Lestrade sighed and glanced around. Donovan, who was just on his heels, was already moving toward the car park, sending Mycroft suspicious glances. "Alright. What is it?" Lestrade asked.

"It concerns Jim Moriarty." Mycroft told him grimly.

"I saw you in court when Sherlock testified." Lestrade nodded slowly. "Is something the matter?"

"Not really." Mycroft shifted his grip on his umbrella handle. "It's just that Moriarty has made a strange request."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "And what is it?"

"He wished expressively to meet with the detective who arrested him." Lestrade's mouth dropped open.

"Sorry, what was that?" Lestrade clamped his mouth shut.

"He wishes to meet you, Detective Inspector." Mycroft repeated. "However, the choice is yours entirely."

Lestrade bit his lip and scuffed his foot against the ground as he contemplated the pros and cons of meeting Moriarty. "Alright." he replied decisively. "I'll meet him."

Mycroft nodded, swinging his umbrella in a vague southward direction. "My car is waiting just down the street."

The two strolled in the direction Mycroft indicated in silence. "Any idea what Moriarty wants with me?" Lestrade asked nervously.

Mycroft looked at him for a prolonged moment, expression unreadable, and then turned his gaze away dismissively. "I haven't the slightest."

The car ride to the prison was silent and stifling and by the time the vehicle stopped, Lestrade was leaping out with the intent purpose of getting the Hell away from the government agent.

But, of course, Mycroft accompanyed him inside to meet Moriarty to 'keep an eye on the proceedings' as Mycroft called it. Honestly though, Lestrade was sure he just wanted to eavesdrop.

Mycroft led Lestrade past the visiting room and into a separate cell. "You will forgive me, I don't believe it very wise to turn a man like Moriarty loose in a roomful of other visitors." Lestrade just nodded silently.

"No table and only one chair?" Lestrade noted, nearing the single window in the cell.

"Yes." Mycroft nodded, "For safety's sake." Lestrade raised his eyebrow at him. "The prisoner will be brought in now." The door opened and two of Mycroft's agents entered with Moriarty following behind and two additional men taking up the rear.

The chair was situated nearer to the far wall from the door, bolted to the floor, and the window was placed behind it. Mycroft's men led Moriarty in and cuffed him to the chair. As Lestrade was standing directly under the window, Moriarty's back was faced toward him.

"My men and I will be right on the other side of the door. Please call if you need assistance or wish to be let out." Mycroft told Lestrade before he and his men filed out, shutting the door firmly and locking it, leaving Lestrade alone with Moriarty.

They stood and sat in silence for a few minutes.

"You know," Moriarty voiced at length, sending shivers through Lestrade's spine. "you were brought here because I requested to 'see' you." he said pointedly.

Lestrade bristled a little at his insane drawl, the voice he used when he was playing mind games with Sherlock. He pressed his lips together and walked around Moriarty with slow, even steps until he was stood in front of Moriarty, his back facing the door.

"There you are at last." Moriarty said to him, raising his head and smiling. "Hello."

Lestrade looked Moriarty up and down once. He was dressed in plain white sweats and was barefoot, like he had just gotten out of bed. There were rings around his eyes from sleepless nights and Lestrade wondered what kept him awake.

"What do you want, Mister Moriarty?" Lestrade asked him brusquely, painfully aware that everything they said or did was carefully monitored by Mycroft.

"I just wanted to meet you." Moriarty said slowly. "Well, I should add 'again', after that."

"Well you've met me again, like you wanted." Lestrade sighed, rolling his eyes. "If you're going to waste my time, I'm going to leave." Then, Lestrade added, in afterthought. "Like I want."

"I'm giving you a warning, Detective Inspector Lestrade." Moriarty declared. "A chance to get out of-..." Moriarty cast his gaze around like the most appropriate word he was searching for was somehow floating in the air around him. "...this."

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked him, shoving his hands in his pockets. He desperately craved a smoke but it went without saying that lighters and smokes were prohibited when visiting prisoners.

"I don't believe you're a bad person." Moriarty shrugged despite his handcuffed wrists. "But you're one of the closest people to Sherlock Holmes and I'm going to destroy him. I'm afraid I can't promise you won't be caught in the crossfire."

"Get out before you get burned." Lestrade intoned, remembering a beautiful woman and her warning words. _Sherlock will burn. And when he does, he won't be the only one taking the fall._ "Is that all you wanted to tell me?"

"All the other people stand by Sherlock, John, Molly, Mycroft... It's a bit late to tell them to stay away." Moriarty scoffed. "But you, you just want the civilians to be safe and for criminals to go to jail. Hell, Sherlock himself would probably fall under the latter category if you're honest with yourself."

"Sherlock's not a criminal." Lestrade snapped back.

"Really?" Moriarty furrowed his brow in mock confusion. "Witholding evidence, _stealing _evidence from crime scenes, breaking and entering, _drug abuse_-..." Moriarty was really stepping into dangerous territory there.

"Alright, that's _enough_!" Lestrade hissed, cutting Moriarty off.

Moriarty and he stared each other down for a moment or two in silence. "Sherlock and I are alike, so - so _very_ alike. Only, I never had an older brother like Mycroft." Moriarty grimaced in distaste.

"Well let's thank God for Mycroft Holmes, then, shall we?" Lestrade snarked.

"It would be hilarious if I had an older brother." Moriarty carried on despite hearing Lestrade speak.

"I know what kind of person Sherlock is and, quite frankly, even with all his flaws I'd take his side over yours." Lestrade said. It was like they were both having a conversation by themselves and talking at the same time with two entirely different strains of topic.

"I'd love to see the look on Mycroft Holmes's face if I told him that." Moriarty snickered. "A seriously 'WTF? ..._OMG_!' face! ...Hilarious."

"And-... you're not listening to me. Christ! It's like talking to a six-year-old." Lestrade rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"He might mastermind some counter-intelligence organization that can spy on Mycroft's spies." Moriarty mused. "Like a mirror image... only, better. Moriartys against Holmeses, chaos to control. Hm, might be fun."

"You don't have an older brother." Lestrade spat, suddenly jumping into Moriarty's conversation.

"No?" Moriarty widened his eyes comically.

"Not biologically, no." Lestrade blinked. "At least, not legally-... you don't have an illegitimate older brother, ...right?" he asked unsurely.

"No." Moriarty pouted. "Too bad."

Lestrade blinked. Their small banter brought him back to a time before Moriarty's theft of the Crown Jewels, before Venice. To a time when Moriarty and he casually met up on weekends in Moriarty's dusty old flat and lounged about in the sitting room talking nonsense just for fun.

It seemed very casual for two supposed strangers he realized and cleared his throat. "Well, I'm-... uh, really, really glad about that." he trailed off lamely.

Moriarty chuckled. "I like you, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mycroft ignores what I say and demands for solid intelligence repetitively, he's annoying. Sherlock just, I don't know, he keeps on talking until I have to join his conversation. Johnny Boy just doesn't talk at all." He nodded to himself. "You say what you want to say and then join in my conversation. I like that."

"Well, truth be told, I don't like you." Lestrade shrugged. "So, I came, we met again, I'm not going to stay away from Sherlock, I might get caught in the crossfire, and you don't have an older brother. That about sums this up?"

"That's the condensed version, yeah."

"Great. Finished here, then? Good day." Lestrade moved to the door, lifting his fist to rap against it.

"Detective Inspector!" Moriarty called, stopping Lestrade from knocking. Lestrade turned. "You look like you could use a smoke." Moriarty extended his arm, holding a thin stick of nicotine in his fingers.

There were so many things wrong with the action. First, when had Moriarty picked his cuffs? Second, _how_ had he picked them when his wrists were cuffed separately on both armrests? Third, how the _Hell_ had he gotten a cigarette?

"Mister Holmes!" Lestrade bellowed, pounding his fist on the metal cell door once very loudly, not removing his gaze from Moriarty.

The four suited cookie-cut men from earlier flew in to restrain Moriarty, Mycroft following behind shortly in obviously no hurry but his eyes were sharp and alert. "Return him back to his cell." he ordered his men frostily. "I believe visiting hours are now over."

Then he met Lestrade's shaken gaze and nodded his head toward the door leading out of the cell. "Shall we, DI Lestrade?"

Lestrade nodded hastily and scurried out after the man, throwing a look back into the cell to see Moriarty smiling at him. He always had that look when he had a clever trick up his sleeve. Lestrade felt a sense of unease, like Moriarty had just used his pointless visit for something very important but wouldn't tell him what it was.

Mycroft's men were milling about, most moving habitually in the direction of the entrances to prevent a potential break-out and some dashing for the source of commotion. One of the suited men brushed harmlessly against Lestrade who was moving in the opposite direction as he.

"Excuse me." the man mumbled and hurried on, not casting a second glance at the man he just inconvenienced.

Lestrade spun a bit to send him a scathing retort but the man was long gone, leaving only a faint tinge of musk and gunpowder in his wake. Lestrade knew that smell. _Sebastian_?

"Detective?" Mycroft called back from a few steps ahead, stopping when he realized Lestrade was no longer following on his heels.

"Sorry, it's nothing." Lestrade shook his head, shrugging, and jogged a little to catch up.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

"This jury finds the defendant, Jim Moriarty, not guilty as charged." A shocked, deathly silent hush came over the courtroom before a surge of noise drowned out the judge's words. Lestrade let his eyes fall shut and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Whether it was a sigh of relief, or one of defeat, Lestrade still couldn't be sure.

He hated it.

He opened his eyes and found John sitting a few rows in front of him, frozen, shocked. The first thing he'd do is call Sherlock, who hadn't come to hear the verdict, and tell him the news. Mycroft, who was sitting in his reserved seat for the entire trial, sighed in despair and hooked his umbrella over his arm as he stood to leave.

As the government agent turned to leave the courtroom, his sharp eyes found Lestrade leaning against the wall and their eyes locked. Not a word was spoken between them and none was needed. Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement and silently exited the building. Lestrade returned his gaze to John and found him jogging out of the courtroom, eager to make his call.

He took one last look at Moriary, honestly not expecting him to return it. Moriarty was staring at him with an unreadable expression, ignoring all the cameras and reporters surrounding him. Lestrade's breath hitched in surprise. He felt hairs rise on the back of his neck and goose bumps rose on his arms. He ignored his bodily reactions, staring with a morbid fascination back at Moriarty.

Then he blinked once, turned, and strode out of the courtroom.

* * *

><p><em>Internet connection.<em> Mycroft sat at his mahogany desk, tapping the solid surface with an undefinable beat with his fingers. Moriarty threatened the jury into securing his freedom but...

_Internet connection._ The words rattled around in his head like beads in a round container, grating his nerves. He had known Moriarty might pull something like this and had explicitly ordered no outside contact, no phones, no TV, nothing that Moriarty could use to sway the jury. Mycroft saw his mistake quite quickly.

It was Lestrade's visit to the prison that made transferring an internect connection possible. Calling Lestrade. Contacting someone close to Sherlock. Stealing Mycroft's full attention, distracting him momentarily from the trial. Moriarty's cigarette fiasco. Mycroft had been too hasty in his actions, frantically plugging up holes in the security around Moriarty that he had entirely forgotton about the jury. Because of his lowered defenses, someone had moved the jury into rooms with connection to the outside world.

And because of that, Moriarty walked free.

Mycroft frowned at his marble-white fingers on the dark, near blood-red wood.

Moriarty would come after Sherlock.

Mycroft picked up the phone at his desk. "Anthea, I need you to do something..."

* * *

><p>"You're a hard man to track down when you're trying to be avoided." Moriarty said casually, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Always sticking close to the Holmeses or your subordinates... did you think that would stop me?"<p>

Lestrade sighed. He had been accosted by Sebastian earlier and brought to the same flat Moriarty and he had first began sleeping together in but it seemed like one of Moriarty's men had come along sometime before they arrived and cleaned up. There were no longer cakes of dust on every surface, and even the world outside the once filthy window had regained its original colour.

Lestrade supposed that he should be glad for that, but he missed the sense that time stood still within these four walls. Lestrade could still enjoy Moriarty's company here, Moriarty's voice could still make him feel wonderful inside. But time moved here. Sherlock texted him, Donovan spammed his inbox with case updates, Time would wait for nobody, not even him and Moriarty.

Speaking of which... "Moriarty." Lestrade's eyebrows pulled toward the center of his forehead crossly.

"What is it, darling?" Moriarty crooned back.

"What the _Hell _is that on your floor?" Lestrade bellowed angrily, pointing to a splotch of red dyeing the floorboards. "And it better not be blood!"

"I thought it might be fun to get a live-in pet. So utterly boring." Moriarty sighed. "I wonder how Sherlock manages it. And, no. Don't worry, he's not dead. Just really, really beaten up."

"How beaten?" Lestrade interrogated.

"You're sexy when you're angry." Lestrade leveled him an exasperated look and Moriarty responded by raising his hands defensively. "Enough to survive from but probably with lasting physical, psychological, and emotional trauma. You can be glad he was a criminal, not even Sebastian liked him! He was all _'Ooh! You're sexy! He's sexy! You're all fucking sex on legs! Let's have an orgy!' _He just wouldn't _**shut up**_!" he shouted, like an overgrown child throwing a tantrum. Lestrade leveled him a stern look that reminded him that he had an indoor voice for a reason. Moriarty sighed in exasperation. "Look, I didn't kill him, you'll _have _to give me that." And Moriarty was right. Because, in his twisted sort of way, he must've actually been making an effort not to kill the poor, horny bugger.

Lestrade decided to let it pass. "Last I checked, my phone was working." he sighed, eyes averted. "You couldn't have just called instead of kidnapping me?"

"Your phone's bugged by Mycroft Holmes. It would've been really awkward if he listened in on me calling out-of-the-blue for phone sex." Moriarty shrugged his shoulders. "Besides... I didn't just want to hear your voice." He sent Lestrade an ernest look.

Lestrade raised his gaze to look at him at that. "No." he voiced firmly.

Moriarty looked away, worrying his lip. "No?" he pouted.

"No." Lestrade nodded with a tone that brokered no arguement. "Friends with benefits, doesn't change anything. I'm a copper, and you're a criminal. I don't know what you're planning but I know it'll be a premeditated crime and as an enforcer of the law, I can't... _shouldn't_ have any unprofessional contact with you officially or unofficially." he pointed out.

"I think having unprofessional contact with me on accounts of being kidnapped is official enough, don't you?" Moriarty chuckled, inclining his head.

"Alright," Lestrade crossed his legs in a businesslike manner. "Mister I-can-break-into-the-three-most-secure-buildings-in-England, what do you want with me?"

"'What do you want with me?'" Moriarty parrotted. "Such a common question, Inspector, I'm disappointed."

"No more than me, I'm sure. If I have to ask so many times, it means you're a slow learner." Lestrade snapped back. "What. Do. You. Want?"

Moriarty strolled over to him slowly and grabbed his necktie, jerking him toward him a few inches, bringing them face-to-face. "You. Naked. Bedroom. God, I've been waiting for this moment for too damn long." he hissed before claiming Lestrade's mouth in a searing kiss, egged on by desperation.

After a few moments of mindblowing snogging, Lestrade grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back a little, breaking them apart. "On the off chance that we're ever found out, I'm saying this was unconsenting intercourse on my part, in my report." he warned jokingly before tugging Moriarty back into his embrace, attacking his neck.

"Hmm, about those handcuffs..." Moriarty purred hotly in his ear. "We _will _have to make your story believeable, won't we?"

"Thought you'd say that, if your leering at the Tower was any indication." Lestrade smirked against his skin. "Pants. Right, back pocket."

"Ah, secured by your own handcuffs. Now there's a powerplay Sherlock won't put past me." Moriarty chuckled, Lestrade relished the vibrations of it as he licked at the hollow of his neck. "Bed. Now. Before I 'unconsentingly intercourse' you right here on the coffee table."

Lestrade didn't have to be told twice.

* * *

><p>Lestrade propped up his head on his hand as he watched Moriarty slumber in the bed beside him. He had convinced himself in the courtroom that anymore contact with Moriarty would be dangerous and foolish... or so he thought. Lestrade knew very well that sleeping with Moriarty behind the Holmeses' backs was a dangerous gamble but he just couldn't stop.<p>

It was like he was addicted.

But Moriarty was already carrying out his plans against Sherlock. Now, for the question that had been bugging him for the last few days. Sherlock, or Moriarty? He couldn't be on both sides at the same time. Lestrade needed to make his mind up quick. He sighed and rubbed his eyes ruefully. Better health? Or getting his fix-... God, it was like kicking his drug addiction and smoking habit all over again! Only this time, there was so much more at stake.

He looked down at Moriarty's relaxed, sleeping face. He looked almost... vunerable, trusting. _Fake. All fake. And you know it._ Lestrade shivered at the memory of Moriarty's fingers squeezing his neck in some half-remembered dream. He shook his head and returned his gaze to Moriarty's face.

Moriarty who was a killer and consulting criminal. Moriarty, who Lestrade knew for only a little over a year. Moriarty who scared the life out of Lestrade because he had the power to unleash a whole new category of feelings and emotions that Lestrade had never experienced before. The Moriarty who could be livid and loud one moment and then quiet and demure the next.

The Jim Moriarty that Lestrade loved despite himself.

Moriarty breathed in deeply and let out a contented sigh with a small smile, burrowing his face into Lestrade's neck. No man could act in his sleep. Lestrade liked to believe that the Moriarty he watched sleep was real. He stroked his fingers absently through Moriarty's short-cropped hair.

_Sherlock._ Sherlock who was a brilliant and high-functioning sociopath-... No, scratch that, a _self-proclaimed _high-functioning sociopath. No professional second opinion. Sherlock who took drugs, nicotine, puzzles, and any intoxicant on this side of the planet to shut his enormous brain up for one moment.

Sherlock, who didn't know Lestrade's name. Sherlock who was almost totally naive when it came to people. Sherlock, who's massive intellect and cutting wit served as an armor and poniard to protect a very emotionally young and complicated character. Lestrade remembered Sherlock on Dartmoor and mentally corrected himself. A very _human_ character.

Sherlock, who Mycroft Holmes entrusted Lestrade to protect.

"Stop thinking, love. You'll hurt yourself." Moriarty mumbled teasingly against Lestrade's neck, stirring.

"Thought you were sleeping." Lestrade grunted back huskily, dropping a kiss into Moriarty's hair. "Morning, Sunshine."

Moriarty hummed appreciatively. "You know, the morning after we first slept together, I was asking myself if Sherlock was really asexual enough not to have a creature like you in his bed as a regular fixture." Lestrade raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Mhm, with your husky voice and commanding tone that could make your lovers to anything you ask. Like chocolate for the ears." he smirked dreamily.

Lestrade blushed and covered Moriarty's mouth before he could continue. "Never heard anyone put it quite that way before."

They lay in silence for a while. "You've got questions." Moriarty noted, shifting himself a little so he could see Lestrade's face better. "Ask."

There was silence for a prolonged moment. "What colour are your eyes?" Lestrade asked finally.

Moriarty stared at him, dumbstruck for a moment. "You've got a criminal scheming maliciously against one of your friends and a computer code that can open any lock... and you ask about his eye colour?"

Lestrade snorted. "You probably won't tell me the code, your games I know you'll keep as a surprise, and the question was bugging me for a long time." He shrugged his shoulders. "Forgive me for asking."

Moriarty shook his head with a chuckle. "Only you, DI Lestrade." He looked away. "Brown."

"Brown?" Lestrade parroted, eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, I know. Boring, isn't it?" Moriarty scruntched up his nose a little with a grimace.

"They don't look quite brown, are you sure?" Lestrade asked him.

"What colour do you see?" Moriarty asked, angling his face to look Lestrade in the eye.

Lestrade looked from one dark orb to the other. He smiled, giving up. "What colour it please God." he mumbled, defeated.

"Ooh, Shakespeare! The man is a poet." Moriarty teased, lowering his head to rest on Lestrade's shoulder. "You're wrong, you know." he carried on after a moment's silence. "I would've told you about the code if you asked... in fact, I might've told you a bit about my plans for Sherlock's fall."

Lestrade's heart stopped. "Fall?" he asked him nervously. "What fall?"

Moriarty stroked his fingers lightly down the curve of Lestrade's face. "Don't be afraid, Lestrade. You don't have to be scared." he murmured almost soothingly, just almost. "Are you scared of me?"

Lestrade didn't have to think about his response for very long. "No." he whispered. "I'm not scared of you, Moriarty. I'm scared _for _you. Sherlock too."

Moriarty looked at him for a long moment before deciding that Lestrade was telling the truth. "You're going to arrest Sherlock, soon." he warned Lestrade. "Very soon."

"What?" Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows. "Why would I do that? What for?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because your superiors will order it and because you respect Sherlock too much to let anyone else make the arrest." Moriarty tapped a finger on Lestrade's collarbone.

He was asking almost too much of Lestrade, testing the limitations of his loyalties. "But why?" Lestrade questioned.

"Because I'll give you a reason to. We have to go now." Moriarty pushed himself off the bed and began hunting about the room for his garments.

"Moriarty, wait! I don't understand-...!" Lestrade frowned in confusion.

"Don't be scared." Moriarty told him lightly, almost remindingly.

Then he gathered his clothes and left the room, leaving Lestrade alone. Lestrade stared at the empty doorway where he had disappeared and sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

What now?

* * *

><p><em>How many times to I have to tell people 'We're the homicide division!'?<em> Lestrade wondered ruefully to himself. He had just wrapped up a new case with Sherlock, trying to track down the US ambassador's children... who were still alive. No homicide there, thank God.

He found Donovan in the evidence room, looking over all the evidence they had collected on the case before they would be packed up. She looked troubled. "Footprint." she voiced, sensing him enter the vicinity. "That's all he had. A footprint." she sounded incredulous, and a little suspicious.

"Yeah, well, you know what he's like." Lestrade replied. "CSI Baker Street." he joked.

"Well, our boys couldn't have done it." Donovan shrugged. Anderson? No surprise there. Well, Anderson wasn't _much_ of an idiot, Lestrade held an adamant belief that CSI didn't make a point to hire idiots. Maybe he just happened to pull the short straw and got the black sheep?

"Well that's why we need him!" he insisted, gesturing toward the footprint. "He's better!"

"That's one explanation." Donovan sighed darkly.

Lestrade's hackles rose at that. "And what's the other?" he asked her cautiously.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Lestrade pressed the end call button with a sigh. John was upset - Hell, even _he_ was upset at the turn-up. Sherlock Holmes, a fraud? Impossible! But, seeing Donovan and Anderson making their way resolutely toward the cars, he knew there was hardly anything he could do about it.

One copper's word against the rest of the New Scotland Yard. That wouldn't change a thing. Lestrade sighed, brushing a hand over the pocket that held his warrent for Sherlock's arrest. It felt alot heavier than Irene's giftbox, damn it! "Sir!" Donovan called out to him impatiently.

"Just a moment!" he yelled back, typing out a text and pressing the send button.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock's not a fraud. What the HELL are you playing at? -Lestrade.<em> Moriarty chuckled a little at the angry text. Sebastian looked up at him while he loaded bullets into his spare handgun magazine.

"Sherlock doesn't know a good thing until it's gone. And now he's going to lose the only ally he has in the Yard. I'm just doing him the favor of bringing it to his attention." he said to the room in general but didn't respond to the text. He then turned to Sebastian. "Sherlock's going to do a runner. Keep an eye on him."

Sebastian nodded silently.

* * *

><p>"Ladies and gentlemen! If you'll please get on your knees!" Lestrade's head whipped around, startled. <em>For God's sakes! What the Hell was Sherlock doing? <em>He saw Sherlock, one hand cuffed to John and holding a police-issued gun with said hand. Poor John, he looked like a bewildered puppet being tossed along for the ride.

_Bang! Bang!_ Lestrade reflexively crouched, tense, vaguely sensing Donovan jump with fright behind him. There were several shouts ranging from warning to outraged tones. "Do as he says!" a voice barked out over the noise and Lestrade nearly looked around to find the owner of the voice before suddenly realizing it was his own. He began wildly gesturing everybody to get down.

"Just - just so you're aware, the gun is his idea!" John proclaimed as they backed up. "I-I'm just-... uh, you know-...!" he floundered.

"My hostage!" Sherlock declared, suddenly pointing his gun at John.

"Hostage! Yes, that works!" John expelled, letting out an explosive sigh of relief. "_That_ works!" Lestrade stared at them, vaguely hearing, in his mind, the voice of the Tenth Doctor comically shouting 'Worst. Rescue. _Ever_!' Well, not exactly 'rescue'... Lestrade sighed and facepalmed.

Sherlock and John turned to dash around the corner. "Well? Go on! After them!" The piggish superintendant screamed, outraged.

Lestrade shot him a slightly confused look. Chase down one of the most intelligent men on earth when he has a mental map of London downloaded into his brain? Such a waste of manpower. They'd never catch him. He shrugged helplessly, rolling his eyes at Donovan as they slid into their shared vehicle, sirens blazing.

Well, on his head be it.

* * *

><p>Lestrade groaned as he staggered wearily into his flat, his muscles protesting at every turn. He flicked the light on as he rubbed his eyes sleepily.<p>

Moriarty was sitting curled up and barefoot on his sitting room sofa in a casual striped cashmere sweater and faded jeans ripped at the knees, watching silly cartoons on the telly whilst simultaneously texting. Moriarty looked up when he heard Lestrade enter. "Hey, I've come for a sleepover. Never done that before!" he grinned foolishly. "I've even brought my own pillow."

Of course, after utterly failing with his experiment with his 'live-in pet' he decided to go for the next best thing.

Lestrade's eyes fell shut and his shoulders sagged with exhaustion as he bit back a frustrated yell. "Can we please pretend that you're a figment of my imagination that won't by here by the time I open my eyes?" His sentence was almost cut off by a tired yawn.

He and the other Yarders had been searching for Sherlock nonstop since his reckless escape earlier in the night and Lestrade had only just been granted a rest. No sign of Sherlock or John, although, Lestrade had put in a call to Molly Hooper and placed the crime-fighting duo at St. Bart's. Of course, where else would Sherlock go?

Not that he'd tell anybody else that.

"Come here." Moriarty raised his arm, gesturing for the DI to approach. "If I'd only known you'd be in a mood, I would've brought some sort of comfort food." he teased.

Lestrade's annoyed and exasperated expression told more of what he thought than he himself did. He moved toward the sitting area slowly. Moriarty grabbed his hand and tugged him down onto the couch next to him. Lestrade leaned his temple against Moriarty's shoulder. "What about Mycroft? Isn't he watching this place?" he asked as concernedly as he could manage in his state of half-sleep.

"He's got more pressing matters to deal with." Moriarty hummed musically. "No time to cyber-stalk Detective Inspectors while they sleep."

Lestrade snorted quietly. "He doesn't really, does he?"

"You ask him, I'm really sure he wouldn't appreciate the question coming from me." Moriarty giggled back, then he quieted, peering at the detective, wondering if Lestrade had dropped off into sleep so quickly for his silence.

Lestrade was still awake, but just barely. "Thank you." he murmured sleepily against Moriarty's shoulder, his eyelids beginning to flutter closed.

"What for, love?" Moriarty asked, threading his fingers through Lestrade's hair. He thought Lestrade would be more upset at him for Sherlock's current situation.

"The kids are alive, the two from the US ambassador case, I mean. You needed the kids to scream bloody murder at Sherlock, but they're alive." Lestrade explained quietly. "Not that I'm not grateful, but I was vaguely wondering why both? You only needed one."

Moriarty's fingers stilled in his hair, then his lips came into soft contact with the top of Lestrade's head. "Because you always get angry if I do kill people, silly. I wasn't exactly keen on being told to spend the night on the couch when I planned my very first sleepover."

Hearing those words, the corner of Lestrade's mouth lifted a little and he dozed off.

* * *

><p>"Sir, you are under arrest for the murder of-..." Lestrade's mind couldn't seem to keep up with what Donovan was saying.<p>

He stared dumbly into the shocked face of a suspect on a case they had closed about three months ago. But the whole situation was wrong. Lestrade pressed his eyes closed. _Come on! You know this! This is your case! Think!_

His eyes flew open. The suspect's wife stood practically melded into the doorjamb looking in to the scene, expressionless. _Wrong!_ Lestrade could almost hear Sherlock's voice calling him from outside this strange dream-arrest of his.

It was wrong. Lestrade knew the real murderer was the wife standing by the door, feigning innocence while her husband was dragged off in cuffs. He knew this because Sherlock had set him on the right path and because of that, she was currently in a jail cell.

And Lestrade stood by watching the scene dumbly, knowing that Anderson and Donovan were arresting the wrong person. Sending an innocent man to jail. But everytime he opened his mouth to speak, every time he stepped forward to stop them, his phone would ring from inside his pocket and he would read the incoming message despite knowing exactly who was texting him.

_Stop._

In this dream, he never would see, for sure, who was texting him, but one thing was for certain. Every time that single word of text showed up on his screen, he would obey.

And just as he was leaving the scene, his gaze would be drawn to the barrier of police vehicles outside the house. John was there, standing evenly with his shoulders haunched and his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

His gaze was a mix of disbelief and disappointment. "This isn't right, Lestrade! This is ridiculous!" he was saying, incredulous, stumped as to how Donovan and Anderson had come to the utterly wrong conclusion and had arrested the wrong man.

And his answer was always the same; "Don't try to interfere, John. Or I'll arrest you too."

The two of them would hear the emptiness in his voice, the utter lack of conviction in his threats and John would just gaze at him steadily but he would not call him out on it.

And somehow, Lestrade had hoped he would.

* * *

><p>When Lestrade woke, he found himself still in the same position he had fallen asleep in only he was sleeping against the sofa's armrest and an afghan had been draped loosely about his shoulders. He lifted his head and squinted at the clock. Only two hours had passed.<p>

"Sorry, darling, did I wake you?" Moriarty asked from his curled position in Lestrade's armchair, clicking away at his phone. Lestrade took a moment to appreciate the change of position. It was usually Moriarty lounging on the sofa and he sitting awake in the armchair.

Lestrade twisted his head to the side a little, relieved when his neck errupted into several little pops. Moriarty watched him with slight irritation. "What?" Lestrade said to him. "Not my fault you left me in a position to make my neck stiff!"

"You didn't complain when you fell asleep." Moriarty shot back.

"Splendid deduction, you little git!" Lestrade chuckled affectionately, sitting up. "It was perfect before you left. Come back." Moriarty pushed himself out of his chair and settled himself in the space Lestrade unoccupied. Lestrade leaned against him and squirmed a little to find the most comfortable position. "See?" he said when he stilled. "Perfect."

"If anyone asks, I'm not spoiling you. Not at all." Moriarty drawled sarcastically, snapping his phone closed.

"Nah, you're just... I dunno, motionless for fear that I'd drool on you." Lestrade suggested jokingly, dusting imaginary dirt off Moriarty's shoulder.

He raised his head off Moriarty's shoulder to look at the man square in the eye, a little more alert now after his nap. "So, what brings you here?" he frowned accusingly. "Sherlock isn't a fraud."

Moriarty was silent for a while and Lestrade wondered if he wasn't going to reply. "You know, the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist." he spoke suddenly.

Lestrade grimaced. "You've certainly convinced the public that you don't exist... but, um, one flaw in your 'greatest trick'." Moriarty raised his eyebrows challengingly. "You're real. And the people closest to Sherlock know it. Do you imagine Sherlock caring about what everybody else thinks?"

"Ah, yes." Moriarty nodded sagely. "You're right about the people close to Sherlock knowing that Jim Moriarty is real. But, when have you ever told him that?"

Lestrade's brow tightened in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"As far as Sherlock knows, you've never met me except the two times I kidnapped you." Moriarty told him patiently. "And now, there's the little details he _has_ noticed like Mycroft selling him out to me in exchange for information on the computer code, John's concerns about what people are writing about him in the papers, Hell, you've arrested him on accusations of fraud. Sherlock Holmes no longer has a single friend in the entire police force."

"Sherlock's not an idiot, he knows we'd never believe he's a fraud." Lestrade cut in.

"Sherlock trusts solitude. Solitude will never betray him." Moriarty raised his eyebrows and scoffed. "'Alone protects him'."

"But Sherlock's not alone." Lestrade said slowly, confidently, distancing himself from Moriarty a little.

"He will be." Moriarty said with a promising tone and a manic look that seemed alien in his eyes.

"No he won't." Lestrade declared firmly.

Moriarty leveled a sober look at Lestrade. "No-... he'll be dead."

The ensuing silence stretched for several long moments. "Get out." Lestrade rasped coldly. He stood up, gaining his full height, fists forming tight balls. "Mister Moriarty, I won't ask again."

Moriarty rolled himself lazily off the sofa and stretched his arms above his head with a deep breath and a slight sigh. When he regained his composure, he slipped his hands into his pockets and looked at Lestrade. "One question, Lestrade, and then I'll leave you to get some well needed rest."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I might not answer." he responded cagily.

Moriarty nodded more to himself. Then, "Just what, may I ask, is your true relationship with Mycroft Holmes?"

The effect the simple question had on Lestrade was overwhelming. His breath hitched and he paled, a look of both guilt and fear sprung into his widened eyes then he pressed his lips together, trembling slightly. "That's none of your bloody business." he almost whispered in a choked voice.

Moriarty's expression softened. "At least you didn't lie." He shrugged casually, unfazed. "Well, goodnight, then."

Moriarty showed himself out of the flat, leaving Lestrade frozen in the sitting room, alone.

Lestrade stayed completely still until all evidence of Moriarty being in his flat disappeared. Then his knees buckled under him and he collapsed into the full length of his sofa, hyperventilating. He gasped in short breaths and forced himself to relax until he was hiccupping softly. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

The phone only rang twice before being picked up. _"Hello?"_

"Mycroft." Lestrade's voice had a sort of desperate tone to the whisper. "I Can't do it anymore. Moriarty... he-... he knows." he whimpered.

_"Where are you?" _Mycroft asked, concerned by the distress in Lestrade's words._ "What happened?"_

"Mycroft, I don't care what you told Moriarty, or what Moriarty told you in return. Sherlock-..." Lestrade sniffed, taking a calming breath. Now was not the best time to show weakness, there would be time for that later. "Sherlock's not alone, Mycroft. Don't let him be."

And he hung up.

* * *

><p>Mycroft stared down at his dead phone, John's words ringing in his brain like the vibrations of sound inside an ancient brass bell. <em>"Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed. And you have given him... the <em>_**perfect **__ammunition."_

Mycroft pressed his eyes closed, willing himself not to feel anything. His brow was creased in a permanent expression of grim dispair. He sighed and shook his head. He couldn't afford to waste time with pedestrian emotions. Caring was not an advantage in times of war, he reminded himself.

He had urgent work to do.

* * *

><p>Lestrade did not sleep that night. He merely sat on his sofa, staring at the wall just above his TV screen, waiting for the morning light to bleed into his windows.<p>

Sherlock wasn't a fraud. Sherlock probably wouldn't accept Lestrade's apology for arresting him either. Lestrade blinked blearily at a lone dossier on his coffee table. Lestrade had not put it there, so Moriarty must've... He picked it up and scanned it with his eyes.

_Richard Brook. Professional actor. Children's fairlytales. Hired by consulting detective Sherlock Holmes._

The words held little meaning to Lestrade as he blinked uncomprehendingly at the file. Moriarty's face was smiling out at him from the photos clipped into the dossier. Jim Moriarty. Richard Brook. An actor? _The_ actor. The actor that Sherlock supposedly hired to commit crimes for him to solve.

A fraud. A hoax. Moriarty's 'greatest trick'.

No, Lestrade thought resolutely, squashing the despair clenching at his stomache. Sherlock's solved some cold cases dating before he was even born. Lestrade scoured his memory. He had to find a few solid cases that proved Sherlock's involvement. It would be difficult since Sherlock didn't care for the credit and Lestrade wasn't eager to lose his job. But someone, Donovan or Anderson, perhaps, would've given a detailed account?

If brought to court, Lestrade would attest to his written reports being false. He'd lose his job. Lestrade forced out a humorless laugh. Of course, the New Scotland Yard had already pinned him down as a scapegoat in the Sherlock-being-a-fraud scandal. He'd get sacked anyway.

Might as well go out proving Sherlock isn't a fake.

Lestrade needed those reports and casefiles. He shook out his wrist and checked his watch. With everybody still out on the streets searching for Sherlock, he'd have most of the Yard to himself. He pushed himself off the couch with a tired groan as his weary bones protested soundly. He didn't have much time. Higher ups would want him out of his office without delay but Lestrade needed to find Sherlock's cases before then.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Sebastian climbed the steps of the staircase with light, soft steps. He frowned a little, the shot he might need to make would be a bit difficult. He pressed his lips together grimly as he watched his target in the building across the street.

He had an earpiece stuck awkwardly in his ear and the conversation filtering through it wasn't good. Not good at all. It was so... Moriarty.

He pulled out the pieces of his sniper rifle and began assembling the weapon.

His mind was elsewhere, though. On the roof of St. Bart's hospital, precisely. He tapped his fingers agitatedly on the barrel of his sniper rifle. It was the highlight of Moriarty's games, the main attraction, the climax of his plans. Moriarty might die today, maybe not, Sebastian never knew.

He could never be the voice of reason in these situations. Moriarty never listened to him when he was telling him that he was being too reckless. He ripped the earpiece out of his ear and dialed a memorized number.

* * *

><p>Lestrade growled in annoyance when his phone rang, interrupting the almost meditative process of searching through Sherlock's unofficial consulting record.<p>

He picked up with a snappy. "Hello?"

_"You're insane." _Sherlock hissed. Lestrade stared at his phone. _Thank you, Sherlock._

_"You're just getting that now?" _Lestrade startled visibly at Moriarty's voice. Just what the Hell was going on?

"Sherlock? Moriarty? What the Hell-..." Lestrade was immediately cut off.

_"Listen." _Lestrade couldn't quite place the voice, but he had a vague feeling that he should know it. _Sebastian?_ Lestrade almost never heard the man speak but the more Lestrade considered the idea, the more he was certain that this was the man's voice.

_"Okay. Let me give you a little extra incentive." _Lestrade guessed Moriarty must be talking to Sherlock and Sebastian was listening via hidden microphone and was, in turn, letting Lestrade listen in. _"Your friends will __**die **__if you don't."_

Lestrade's heart stopped cold at that. He stood up at his desk with so much force that it knocked his chair over. _"John-..." _Sherlock's voice was gravelly, and almost vulnerable.

_"Not just John." _Moriarty told him. _"__**Everyone**__."_

_"Mrs. Hudson."_

_"**Everyone!**" _Moriarty hissed again, threateningly.

_"Lestrade." _Lestrade almost dropped his phone in his shock at hearing his name on Sherlock's lips, officially classifying him in Sherlock's almost nonexistant file of friends. A small smile tugged at Lestrade's lips and a warmth bloomed in his chest despite the bad timing.

* * *

><p>If there was an award for Best Pokerface, Moriarty would've had it in the bag... as if he hadn't already been nominated for it in the pool when his phone went off. <em>Lestrade? <em>Now there was something he hadn't predicted. He had been disappointed in Sherlock for not caring about one of the most important people in his life... it seems he was wrong. Sherlock cared, just didn't make it a point to broadcast it.

No, Lestrade wouldn't die today... no need to tell Sherlock that, though. "Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims." Moriarty said to Sherlock. "There's no _stopping_ them now. Unless my people see you jump."

* * *

><p>Moriarty's sniper lined his firearm up and pressed the sniper's stock against his cheek, squinting into the scope, lining his shot up with Mycroft Holmes's head as the man sat by a window in his quaint little Diogenes Club, reading a newspaper clipping with Sherlock's picture plastered on the front page.<p>

* * *

><p>Lestrade was already running out of the building and clambering into his car, hoping to get to St. Bart's in time. He pressed his phone to his ear so as not to miss any of the horrible conversation between two of the most important people in his life.<p>

"Sir!" an officer called out, jogging after him. Lestrade recognized him as being one of the men on Moriarty's payroll. "You can't go. I'm under orders not to let you."

Lestrade grimaced. He didn't have time for this!

* * *

><p>Moriarty smoothed out his jacket lapels. "You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you want with me, but nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger." he said to Sherlock, who was staring over the edge of the building, listening. "Your only three friends in the world will die." Except Lestrade. "Unless-..."<p>

"I kill myself. Complete your story." Sherlock cut him off icily.

Moriarty nodded with a smile. "You got to admit, that's sexier."

"I'll die in disgrace." Sherlock muttered, staring down the several storeys to the ground.

"Well, course, that's the point of this." Moriarty joined Sherlock in peering over the edge of the building. "Oh, you've got an audience now." He craned his head. "Go on."

Sherlock stepped mutely past him, onto the ledge. "I told you how this ends." Moriarty could hear Sherlock struggling to keep his breathing in check. "Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers." He turned to look at Sherlock. "I'm certainly not going to do it."

* * *

><p><em>God, Sherlock! <em>Lestrade gritted his teeth and applied more pressure to the gas pedal as he continued listening to the dialogue flowing scratchily out of his speaker. _Don't, please don't. Not until I get there, Sherlock, don't do anything stupid! _He peered into the car's back seat to make sure Moriarty's agent didn't yet regain consciousness.

* * *

><p>"Will you give me one moment, please?" Sherlock asked. "One moment of privacy?" Silence. "Please."<p>

Moriarty raised his gaze a few inches but didn't look at Sherlock, he looked disappointed. "Of course." He stepped away from Sherlock and the ledge.

Sherlock breathed steadily, think, think, think! _Oh...! _Realization swept over him like a wave. A smile tugged at his mouth. Then a chuckle squirmed out of his tight throat and gave way to a full out laugh.

Moriarty paused, hearing the unnatural noise in this grim situation. He turned around. "What?" he demanded childishly. Sherlock continued chuckling. "What is it?" Sherlock turned halfway to look at him, a large smile spread across his face. "What did I miss?"

Sherlock twirled around, hopping lightly off the ledge and strutting toward him. "'You're not going to do it'?" Sherlock repeated Moriarty's words. "So the killers can be called off then? There's a recall code, or a word, or a number." He circled around behind Moriarty. "I don't have to die if I've. Got. You." he sang mockingly.

"Oh...!" Moriarty's mouth formed a circle. Then he chuckled, blinking. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?" he asked challengingly.

"Yes." came Sherlock's determined response. "So do you."

"Sherlock." Moriarty grimaced. "Your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

Sherlock stepped sharply into his personal space intimidatingly. "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" A heated stare-down ensued. "I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in Hell? I shall not disappoint you." Sherlock's voice was strong and steady, promising great things.

Moriarty stared deep into Sherlock's grey eyes. "Nah." he shook his head with a frown. "You talk big. Nah, you're ordinary - you're _ordinary_, you're on the side of the Angels!" he murmured woefully.

"Oh, I may be on the side of the Angels, but don't think for one _second_ that I am one of them." Sherlock hissed back.

Moriarty looked from one eye to the other, searching for any weakness, any sign of Sherlock lying, any sign of doubt. "No." he decided finally. "You're not." He blinked his eyes closed and smiled serenely. He opened his eyes with a warm look. "I see." he nodded understandingly. "You're not ordinary." He shook his head. "No. You're me." He giggled and his voice raised a few octaves. "You're _me_! Thank you!"

He extended his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

After a moment, Sherlock slowly took it, almost as if in slow motion. Their grips tighened. "Thank you." Moriarty smiled, Sherlock sent him a suspicious look, obviously sensing that something wasn't right. "Bless you." Moriarty whispered to him.

He swallowed, a little nervous. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out." He nodded a little. "Well, good luck with that." He suddenly opened his mouth, gaping with widened eyes as he pulled out a gun from his jacket pocket and pointed the barrel in his mouth.

He squeezed the trigger.

* * *

><p>"Jesus Christ!" Lestrade yelped, tearing his phone away from his ear when the gunshot blared through his phone, shocking him. "Moriarty? Sherlock! Sebastian, what's going on?" he shouted into his phone, panicking. He could already see St. Bart's in the distance. "Moriarty? <em>Moriarty!"<em>

He slammed his hand onto the steering wheel and cursed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock staggered backward in shock, away from the falling body. Moriarty hit the ground in near silence, blood trickled out from under his body and spread out away from him. Sherlock only vaguely realized he was hyperventilating.<p>

He covered his mouth with his sleeve, biting down bile. _No, no, no, no! _His mind shouted. His only hope for ending Moriarty's games without anybody being killed! _Gone! All gone! _He couldn't-...! His eyes found the building's ledge again and his mind stilled.

_Mrs. Hudson..._

Breathing seemed to come easier suddenly now, his head felt a little dizzy like it did when he used to take drugs, but he could still think lucidly. His shaky but determined feet found the concrete mound and he stepped up, only inches from death.

_Lestrade..._

He looked down from his hightened perch. _So high..._ A lone cab coasted to a stop right before his eyes and the only person he wanted to see in that moment emmerged.

**_John..._**

He dialed John's number and watched his flatmate below fumble for the communications device. "Hello?"

"John-..." Sherlock began.

"Hey Sherlock, you okay?" John asked, jogging toward St. Bart's entrance.

"Turn around and walk right where you came from." Sherlock ordered.

"No, I'm coming in." John said defiantly.

"Just do as I ask!" Sherlock expelled, cursing his voice for shaking like an autumn leaf in the wind. "_Please_."

John stopped short, he seemed to hear, loud and clear, the solemnity of the situation in Sherlock's voice. He turned around, jogging back across the street. "Where?"

Sherlock waited until John was in a position for the two to see each other without any distractions. "Stop there." John stilled, still looking around.

"Sherlock?"

"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop." Sherlock said calmly, trying not to panic the doctor.

John looked up and caught sight of him. "Oh, God." Ironic, wasn't it? Seeing him there on the rooftop. Like where he had first recognized Sherlock Holmes as a very brilliant man outside a crime scene on a serial suicide case in Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.

"I- I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock stammered.

"What's going on?" John asked, eyes begging Sherlock to tell him that he wasn't about to do what he thought he was going to do.

"An apology." Sherlock stated, sorry that he couldn't tell John what he wanted to hear. "It's all true." he declared, the words felt like a well rehearsed script on his tongue.

"What?" John gasped in disbelief.

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." Sherlock glanced back at the motionless body on the floor behind him.

John stared at Sherlock for a long moment, willing his mind to give a plausible explanation why Sherlock was doing this. Willing Sherlock to just admit that this was all just a bad joke. "Why are you saying this?" he asked weakly.

Sherlock turned back to look at John. "I'm a fake." he blurted.

"Sherlock-..." Sherlock cut John off.

"The newspapers were right all along." Sherlock felt tears prick at his eyes. "I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you." he took a deep breath. "That I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up." John begged. "The first time we met - the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?" he persisted.

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could." Sherlock let out a strained laugh, feeling pride for his faithful blogger. His friend.

But, he had to convince John... He thought for a moment. "I researched you." he claimed. "Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you." He swallowed. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

John shook his head. "No. Alright, stop it now!" He moved to cross the street again.

"Stay exactly where you are!" Sherlock bellowed urgently. "Don't move."

John stepped back, hand upraised. "Alright!"

Sherlock's hand was outstretched as if reaching out for John. "Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?" he begged desperately.

"Do what?" John asked.

"This phonecall it's - um, it's my note." Sherlock could see a look of horror cross John's face. "It's what people do, don't they?" He swallowed again, wishing he had thought to bring a bottle of water when he came up to meet Moriarty. "Leave a note." Just look at him, trying to be normal in the very end... boring.

"Leave a note, when?" John inwardly begged Sherlock not to be serious, begging him to just continue talking like this until help came.

"Good bye, John." Sherlock whispered brokenly.

"No, ... don't-...!" John was shaking his head pleadingly.

Sherlock slowly lowered the hand that held his phone and tossed the phone away. It made a crackly noise of plastic scraping against concrete and skittered away.

_Away..._

"Sherlock!" John's voice roared desperately over the buzzing in his ears.

Sherlock stretched his arms out as if he would sprout wings and take flight. Then he stepped out into the open air.

A rush of wind whipping past his face, stealing his breath. Falling..._ it really is just like flying. Moriarty was right._

And then the silence, the deathly silence of John's shock. No noise at all.

_Mrs. Hudson, isn't it **hateful**?_

* * *

><p>AN: God, I hope I wasn't the only one who thought it was incredibly unprobable that Moriarty would have an agent kill Lestrade right, smack in the middle of the New Scotland Yard under the noses of the other Yarders!

But, luckily enough, in the ep, it only showed Lestrade being watched by one of the officers outside his office and, unlike the sniper and the assassin in Mrs. Hudson's flat, it didn't show the agent to be armed and thus left that microscopic detail up to speculation.

And I really hope I did the last scene justice, I really love that scene! Well-... I love the whole series, but that one part in particular!

More of my random thoughts while writing this..._  
><em>


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

The world bled by in a haze of colours blurring together like fruits in a blender. Lestrade pulled up on the curb outside St. Bart's and opened his car door with shaky hands. John was sitting on the street, looking well in-shock, surround by several people who were trying to comfort him but seemed to be getting no response.

He had not heard much since Moriarty discharged a gun. But at who? And where was Sherlock?

He ran across the street and pushed through the crowd, touching John's shoulder. "John! John, what happened here?" Lestrade caught sight of a splash of blood on the pavement beside John."John! Are you hurt?"

John finally looked up at that. "Sherlock-..." he croaked weakly and fell silent.

Lestrade looked around. "Where? Where's Sherlock, John?"

John cast his gaze toward one of the entrances of the hospital and pressed his eyes closed. "God, no..."

Lestrade looked from the distraught John, to the blood on the ground, and to the doors apprehensively. "Can you stay with him, please?" he asked one of the nurses accompanying John and ran for the doors.

"Ms. Hooper!" Lestrade barked out when he spotted the young lady in the halls.

Molly's gentle but haunted eyes jumped to meet his dark ones. "You're here for Sherlock, arn't you?" she said quietly.

Lestrade swallowed and nodded.

* * *

><p>"John-..." John cut Lestrade off with a quick look.<p>

"Where is he?" he demanded quietly, brokenly, having recovered himself and followed Lestrade into the hospital. It was about half-an-hour after Sherlock's fall. "Where's Sherlock?" he asked.

Lestrade's heart sank into his stomache, how should he handle the situation? "John," he said slowly, stalling. "Sherlock isn't here anymore."

John stared at him for a long moment dumbly. "What? Where is he?"

"The doctors took him, John, you know how these things work." Lestrade explained only to see the shock and rage spew over John's face.

"What? They can't just-...!" he raked a hand through his short blonde hair. "I need to see him." He squared his shoulders and pushed past Lestrade.

"John!" Lestrade caught the ex-military soldier by his shoulder in a gentle, but firm grip. "You shouldn't-..." What could he say to John? Heaven and Earth, with Hell as a reluctant ally in times of emergencies such as this, couldn't keep John and Sherlock apart for very long. "You don't-... you shouldn't see him." he told John. "It's not a pretty sight."

John stared at him, incredulous. "I've seen dead bodies before!"

"Not Sherlock's!" Lestrade retorted urgently. "You don't want to remember him like this."

"Greg, let me go!" John struggled against's Lestrade's grip. "I need to see him!"

"He's _gone_, John!" Lestrade bellowed, just to get the fact through John's skull, his heart ripping itself apart from the inside with every word at made its way out of his dry mouth. "You don't want to remember him as a bloody, unmoving corpse on a slab! Sherlock's not that! You of all people should know that best!" John seemed to still at his earnest words.

He opened his mouth to respond but no sound came out, he screwed his eyes shut against the pain.

Lestrade seemed to understand what he meant and squeezed his shoulder sympathetically. "John-..."

"He jumped." John choked, scrubbing tears that spilled onto his cheeks only to be replaced by more. "He _bloody_ jumped! Why?"

John's words were like a cold knife to the chest. _"Your friends will **die** if you don't."_ Bloody Moriarty.

'Because he cared.' seemed to be on the forefront of Lestrade's mind, but he refrained from telling John so. It just wasn't something he had the right to tell him after what he had done. "I don't know." he lied, knowing that that was what he was expected to say.

"He can't be gone." John moaned softly, almost to himself.

"I'm sorry, John."

* * *

><p>"How are you holding up?" Mycroft asked Lestrade when he found the DI sitting idly on the stairs down the hall from where John was recovering from his shock.<p>

"Fine-... fine." Lestrade sighed, raking his fingers through his short hair.

"You found Moriarty?" Mycroft asked after a moment of silence.

Lestrade let out a forced, humorless laugh. "Yep. First copper on the scene!" He peered past Mycroft down the hall where John was just showing himself out, probably to see Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street. "John's in a state." He looked at Mycroft. "How's Sherlock?"

Mycroft sighed tiredly, moving to sit beside Lestrade on the stairs. "Shaken and more than a little concerned about John, but alive."

"Mhm, thanks to you." Lestrade nodded gratefully. "How did you pull it off, anyway? Faking Sherlock's death."

Mycroft shook his head grimly. "Trade secret. And you will he happy to know that two of the snipers have been caught." Lestrade pressed his lips together. So Sebastian had eluded Mycroft?

They sat in gloomy silence before Lestrade broke it. "I still think you should tell John. It's not fair, he thinks Sherlock's dead."

"It's the way it must be." Mycroft raised his hands, palms upturned in a sign of helplessness. "John Watson is being watched by a great many people who don't yet know that Moriarty's computer code never existed. He's under a great deal of pressure and he must perform the part of grieving friend for them for them to believe it."

"If you haven't noticed, he _is_ the grieving friend." Lestrade rolled his eyes angrily.

"I will tell him Sherlock is alive, but only after the danger is past." Mycroft sent Lestrade a pointed look. "It is for his safety just as much as it is for Sherlock's. I hope you will understand that."

"I won't tell him." Lestrade promised, shaking his head. "But you're still an arse, Mycroft."

Mycroft's eyes fell closed. "We've all made our mistakes, Lestrade." he sighed. "And, I admit, a few grave ones too." He looked at Lestrade sincerely. "I'm sorry." Then he planted a soft kiss on Lestrade's lips. "I missed you." he admitted with a tenderness unbecoming of his 'Iceman' status.

Lestrade smiled sadly and kissed Mycroft back on the forehead. "Missed you too, Mycroft. Bloody undercover op, haven't seen you publicly in a whole year, or so! I am _so_ never doing that again. Can't-... can't do that again." He leaned into Mycroft and pressed his forehead tiredly on the government agent's shoulder. From the strain of having to hide his relationship with Mycroft from Moriarty, and hiding his relationship with Moriarty from Sherlock, and having to maintain his status as 'relatively single' at the Yard, he was more than thoroughly exhausted. "So, what now?"

Mycroft tapped the end of his umbrella on the floor rhythmically. "Life goes on for John Watson, he gets to do whatever he sees fit. Sherlock will need to live out in hiding for a while, Switzerland, I was thinking. You'll have to take a break from your position in the Yard, but no worries, you'll probably have your job back in a year, maybe less."

Lestrade let out another humorless chuckle. "A year... it's a Hell of a long vacation." He looked up at Mycroft. "How are you holding up?"

"I've never been better." Mycroft shrugged his shoulders. "Sherlock is alive and, for once, under my full supervision. Moriarty's code never existed in the first place, that would put a great many minds to rest. And Moriarty himself is no longer a problem."

Lestrade nodded, looking away. "Yep. He's gone." He let out a long, shaky breath.

"Yes, speaking of which, I was hoping you'd assist in identifying the body?" Mycroft watched Lestrade's expression carefully. "I understand if you do not want to."

Lestrade shook his head and waved. "Lead the way, Mycroft, I'm right behind you."

Mycroft stood and gallantly helped Lestrade to his feet before leaning him into the morgue and approaching a gurney. He turned back to Lestrade. "Lestrade-..."

Lestrade cut him off quickly. "Just-..." he motioned for the government agent to lift the sheet off the corpse's body. "Don't worry about me."

Mycroft shrugged and pulled back the sheet.

Lestrade neared Moriarty's body and felt the same sickening feeling as he felt when he found the body on the rooftop. He bit down bile and moved to Moriarty's side.

He took Moriarty's hand and closed his eyes, imagining the clear, starry Venetian skies and gyrating costumes with lavish headwear. Moriarty was gripping his hand warmly, smiling. _Don't let go. _Lestrade opened his eyes and dropped Moriarty's lifeless hand back onto the gurney.

"What is your opinion?" Mycroft asked quietly from behind him as if Lestrade was a dangerous animal half a hair's breadth from lashing out.

"Yes." Lestrade nodded slowly. "It's Moriarty."

"You're sure? Irene Adler had faked her death once before." Mycroft told him cautiously.

"It's Moriarty, I think I'd know if it was his hand in mine." Lestrade responded hollowly, not moving his gaze from the alabastar flesh before him.

Moriarty's eyes were still frozen open, nobody had risked touching the body up much before they knew what exactly happened. His body was cold and stiff, Lestrade pressed his lips together. Many people said that their loved one's corpse gave the illusion of them merely sleeping. Moriarty just looked dead.

His vacant eyes were brown, just like he said they were.

Lestrade gently closed the dead man's eyelids and leaned down, pressing his lips to Moriarty's cold forehead. "Good bye, Mister Moriarty." Lestrade whispered against his skin before straightening himself, pulling the sheet back over his dead lover's face.

"I think we're done here." he said to Mycroft who nodded.

"Thank you." Mycroft led him out of the building and to his private car.

Lestrade shook his head. "I think I need some time alone." Mycroft nodded understandingly and kissed him again.

"Take all the time you need."


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Lestrade was silent as his feet moved over the creaky floorboards and he looked around at the empty sitting room with its cushioned armchairs and the faded red sofa facing a now clean window. It had only been a few days since Lestrade had last been here with Moriarty but it seemed like ages ago.

"I didn't think you'd come." A voice spoke out of the shadows, breaking the almost reverent silence.

Lestrade turned. "I think you're more surprised I didn't bring the wrath of Mycroft down on you." Tailored shoes and stylish Westwood stepped out into the light.

"No, I'd have been struck by lightning by now, if you did." Moriarty smiled softly. "Wouldn't put it past Big Brother." he chuckled, then he regarded Lestrade quietly. "You didn't tell Mycroft and John that I was alive. Why?"

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders, not answering his question. "Say, you alright? You did just eat a blank." he asked concernedly, diverting their conversation.

Moriarty shrugged his shoulders, letting him. "Nothing hurt but my dignity. It was neccessary for me to disappear."

"How did you do it?" Lestrade asked. "Fake your death." It seemed like he was asking that question alot these days. First Irene, then Mycroft about Sherlock, and now Moriarty. Apparently, faking your own death was the new 'in' thing for their resident geniuses.

"I 'accidentally' let slip about the recall code to make Sherlock force me to 'kill' myself. Ate a blank, fell on my back to burst a hole in a previously readied pack of blood and pretended to be dead. Once Sherlock jumped, run back into the building, meet up with the man now in the morgue, who was waiting on the stairs, kill him and place his body in my place. I walk out a living dead." Moriarty explained smugly.

"So who is it actually? The man in the morgue." Lestrade cocked his head.

"Richard Brook." Moriarty shrugged. "An actor, don't remember his real name, I hired him to take the fall. Paid an enormous amount of money for the plastic sugeries to make him look like me."

"What for?" Lestrade asked.

"For Mycroft Holmes." Moriarty tucked his hands into his pockets. "Richard Brook is my body double, just in case Mycroft actually thought to kill me. Besides, I needed to leave a body to give the illusion that I'm really dead."

"But, more importantly." Moriarty peered at Lestrade with interest. "How did _you_ know he wasn't me?"

"I was a bit fooled by the hands, the hands were done very well." Lestrade admitted, he was silent for a moment, remembering the scene at the morgue. "It was the eyes." Moriarty's eyebrows jumped up. "They were brown."

Moriarty was silent for a moment before smiling. "They are brown, arn't they?"

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "Only in the sunlight. An artificial light like the one in the morgue would never have cast that shade." He chuckled. "I almost laughed aloud, can you imagine? Mycroft was not even three feet behind me!"

"What did you do then?" Moriarty asked curiously.

"I bent down and kissed Mister Brook on the forehead and whispered a few words to 'Moriarty' to cover my face until I got my smile under control." Moriarty laughed.

"That's my Lestrade!" he grinned, then realized his mistake. The smile bled away. "Or, well, not really."

"How did you guess about me and Mycroft?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"From the illegal bare-knuckle fighting competition." Moriarty told him. "Your emergency contact number at the hospital wasn't your grandmother's, your only living relative, it wasn't your ex-wife's, wasn't even one of your collegues, it was Mycroft Holmes's personal number. And I do mean, _personal number_."

Lestrade groaned and collapsed into his usual armchair as Moriarty perched on his sofa. "You knew something was up since so early in the game? You played me! Now I feel like an idiotic sod!"

"No, Lestrade, you were Mycroft's undercover agent from the very beginning. You. Played. Me." Moriarty chuckled. "You bugged Sebastian's and my phones, placed trackers on our vehicles-... is that how the police managed to raid the fighting competition so quickly? I was wondering how Mycroft Holmes found me in Venice! Were you also the one who's been leaking the names of some of my hired help to him?"

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders guiltily. "Oh, you're very good, Lestrade!" Moriarty applauded. "It must've been so difficult, playing the fool all the time."

They sat in silence for a while, watching each other half-warily, half-admiringly, sizing each other up in a new light. "When did you and Mycroft decide to use you as an undercover agent? I can imagine it must've been a difficult decision to make, especially for Big Brother, knowing who you'd be keeping company."

Lestade threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, Moriarty, we go much farther back." he told him.

"Oh?" Moriarty raised his eyebrows eagerly. "Do tell."

"It was just after I graduated from the academy that I was assigned as an undercover cop." Lestrade smiled reminiscently. "I was infiltrating a drug cartel, that's when I met Sherlock. See, Sherlock deduced I was an undercover cop which led Mycroft, in turn, to find out and he devised a... meeting."

"Kidnapping." Moriarty supplied helpfully, leaning forward in his seat.

"Yeah, anyway, the gist of it was 'Keep an eye on my little brother and I won't blow your cover.' I agreed to his terms and went back under, Sherlock then decided to invite himself on the case and helped solve it. After that, I was pulled out and sent to rehab for my forced drug addiction. Only two months later, Mycroft Holmes himself puts in a call and asks for my help on rounding up a human trafficking ring. Apparently, a few higher ups in the government were also connected to the ring so Mycroft couldn't poke around in case they began to suspect him."

"Again, Sherlock decided to tag along and we turned those we could in to the New Scotland Yard and the king pins disappeared, courtesy of Mycroft. Mycroft and I had a sort of fling during the case - a fleeting romance - so to speak. But, by the time the case was wrapped up, I was in a spot of danger because of my involvement and Mycroft and I decided it was wise for me to discontinue my involvement in undercover ops and he put me on the streets as a regular copper. We didn't see each other at all after that, and we thought that was the end of it until Sherlock popped up at a crime scene and everything came rushing back."

Lestrade cast his gaze Heavenward. "Everything just snowballed from there. I took on a few cases with Sherlock, got a few more visits from Mycroft and we settled into a comfortable, if slightly unorthodox relationship and it's been going on for a few years."

"Of course! It wasn't just your drug addiction and active involvment with gangs that was erased from your file, it was your whole career as an undercover cop." Moriarty shook his head, tutting. "How could I have missed that?"

"Mycroft deleted all records of me being undercover and only left the little details of my involvement in crime-..."

Moriarty cut him off with an 'Ah!' "... To give me something to blackmail you with! To make you cooperate with me!"

Lestrade nodded. "I've gone deep undercover a few more times since the two times with the Holmes siblings, off the records, of course." Lestrade turned a wry look at Moriarty. "'Survivor's instincts' you said I had. You said I was 'more complicated than people preferred to believe I was' Thought my cover was blown right then!"

"Your little spat with Mycroft after the first time I kidnapped you, all that hostiliy, that was all a show for me!" Moriarty realized with slight glee.

"Had to make sure you thought we only just tolerated each other." Lestrade shrugged.

"And I believed!" Moriarty laughed. "Now I feel like such a fool!"

"He was so pissed at you when you kidnapped me for the fight competitions." Lestrade laughed reminiscently. "Nearly pulled me out of the op then."

"Why didn't he?" Moriarty asked.

"Told him not to, said 'you were just beginning to like me'." Lestrade grinned. "You should've seen him at the hospital, I swear, Mycroft Holmes was never so quiet in his life! He was just about ready to swear a blue streak and start dropping nuclear bombs, thank God he didn't!"

They sat in pregnant silence for a few moments, just enjoying each other's company. "We agreed not to fall in love." Lestrade murmured quietly.

"And we didn't." Moriarty responded quickly, too quickly.

"You're wrong." Lestrade shook his head. "We did. Me, well, that outcome was pretty predictable to everybody. I've got a peculiar taste in men, see? You, on the other hand, wasn't too sure if your affections were all just acts to manipulate me or not." He looked at Moriarty. "But, in the end, you yourself gave me the infallible proof."

Moriarty raised his eyebrows. "Well, actually, you gave Sherlock the proof. I listened to Mycroft's surveilance on Baker Street and caught it. You gave Sherlock a way out on the roof but Sherlock either didn't take it, or didn't know of it."

"You caught it, though?" Moriarty asked, entwining his fingers contemplatively. "You found the answer?"

"'The man with the key is king'." Lestrade recited Moriarty's words to Sherlock concerning the false computer code. "Now, you wern't referring to yourself because you had the code, you wern't referring to Sherlock who you gave the code to because there was no code, the key never existed. So, what key? Not a computer code, a recall code, _the_ recall code." Lestrade leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "That's the thing with you, rarely ever say anything irrelevant, never waste your words. You claimed to be able to open any lock, get into any airtight security system while simultaneously giving Sherlock the key to getting _out_ of your little death-trap."

"The man with the key is king. King Arthur of your fairytale. I hold the key, the recall code was 'Gregory Lestrade'." Lestrade leaned back into his seat. "I called Sebastian and he told me the recall code was, in fact, my name. While Sherlock was still trapped in your little game your killers would threaten John, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft. Once Sherlock realized the recall code, or you were somehow coerced into giving it, the three snipers would then take my life in exchange."

"And here comes the parallel, you and Sherlock are like one and the same. It wasn't just a fall from the graces of the public, it was a fall from the proverbial Heavens Sherlock was being subjected to. The gods of mythology were the same, superior to the ordinary humans, undefeatable, untouchable. Until they fall in love with the humans, or, in this case, you become human, you care, you're 'on the side of the Angels' as you put it."

"It was your last gamble, if Sherlock let his friends die, he would've proved himself to you as a 'superior being' and you would've kept him as a playmate. If Sherlock jumped, he would prove himself as a human who cared. Someone not worth your time. If Sherlock saved his friends and lived, I would be dead, stripping you of the only thing, only person, that made you human. As long as you had me, one little crack in your armor, Sherlock, John, and Mycroft would always win."

Lestrade shrugged. "But that's what started all this, wasn't it? All this, your games with Sherlock, hightened the rate of you coming out dead. You were scared." Moriarty's eyes flashed but he remained silent. "Because it wasn't just Sherlock falling. Being normal was just becoming fun for you. You wanted normal things, to do normal activities, to meet normal people. You lost that constant flow of euphoria, that adrenaline rush you used to get. 'Kill or be killed.' But no, you wanted 'safe'. You wanted... me." Lestrade was quiet for a moment, wondering if the last declaration was just a bit too narcisstic. But Moriarty's responding look told him it was not so.

"You wanted Sherlock, _needed_ Sherlock, to distract you, to remind you of what you once were. A cold-hearted, brilliant, insane, killing machine. You couldn't win him if you wern't at your most ruthless. 'Obsessed' Mycroft called you. It impressed him, what you did in your cell. You needed to remember Sherlock, you needed Sherlock because you were so scared of becoming 'ordinary'. Without Sherlock, you're just another criminal that the New Scotland Yard couldn't catch. Without another genius to understand the complexities of your crimes and to appreciate your genius, you're nothing."

"I was becoming important to you, you couldn't have that, could you? No. So you wanted me dead, wanted all the distractions gone. But, just a little part of you couldn't agree with that, could it? Using my full name as the recall code. The first name Sherlock would've, no doubt, deleted from his hard drive by now making it near impossible for him to utilize it. Just a little part of you couldn't let me die."

"Knowing all this, tell me, Moriarty. Could you look in my eyes and say to my face that I don't mean anything to you, at all?" Lestrade challenged.

Moriarty looked at him with a little awe. "Of all the people who might've understood, not Sherlock, not Mycroft, not Irene, not even Johnny Boy." He shook his head. "You." He smiled. "You're alot more perceptive than everyone gives you credit for."

"Bet a little part of you wanted Sherlock to win." Lestrade murmured quietly.

"Oh, forget Sherlock! Forget Mycroft! They're predictable, even in their unpredictablility." Moriarty groaned, shaking his head, threading the fingers of both his hands through his hair. "But you, no. You're a bit of an anomaly. You both love and hate me, play catch and release. So bold and yet, deep down... so afraid. You had so many chances to kill me - I _gave_ you chances! But you didn't take them and I have no idea why not. I can't predict you. You scare the Hell out of me." He pursed his lips and shrugged. "So, what then? Are you going to arrest me?"

Lestrade snorted. "What kind of ending would that give the followers of Sherlock's story? Rise to the climax of the final showdown between Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty, pure mirror images of the other on opposite sides of the law. Who will come out victorious? Get to the end of the story to find that DI Lestrade catches Moriarty?" he scoffed. "Let them believe that you and Sherlock outwitted each other, paying for it with your lives. A brilliant tragedy. You've got to admit, that's sexier." he mimicked Moriarty's tone.

Moriarty chuckled.

"I've betrayed Sherlock when he needed my support the most. I'd say this is more or less your win." Lestrade shrugged helplessly.

"It leaves a bad taste in the mouth." Moriarty grimaced, recalling the nightmares that plagued Lestrade during the manhunt.

"Sometimes, I wondered, though." Lestrade pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Who did I fall in love with? Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal? Or, Richard Brook, the shell of a man who might've been capable of love once? More like, _what_ did I fall in love with? A dream? An idea? Maybe I convinced myself that you were capable of genuine tenderness. Maybe I simply loved you as-..." Lestrade bit his tongue and swallowed whatever he was about to say.

"Well," Moriarty raised his eyebrow. "I'd like to believe they were both a bit real."

Lestrade chewed his lip and ran his hand through his hair. "Ah, well, doesn't matter now, does it?"

"I wonder if Mycroft knew you'd fall." Moriarty mused. "Wonder if he knew you'd love only to 'zip up my bodybag' like you said." he shook his head and answered his own question. "Of course he did, how cruel of him."

"Of course." Lestrade nodded. "We both knew that. I couldn't lie to your face and act like I was in love with you when I wasn't. It would be easier to convince Sherlock I loved _him_!" Lestrade laughed. It was a strained, weary sound. "I fell in love. And I watched you die. It's cruel but in the end it's all just a numbers game."

"Sacrifice one to save a hundred." Moriarty shook his head. "You can't really believe that. It's not worth it." He nodded toward the window, to the city outside. "Not for those stupid insects. They'll never know what you've done for them, for Sherlock."

"I do believe that, Moriarty - _have to_ - even if I know it's all rubbish." Lestrade spat. "I couldn't leave here if I don't." Moriarty opened his mouth to say something but Lestrade spoke up preemptively.

"Leave, Moriarty, and don't come back." he said. "Because you care. You're ordinary, and, like it or no, you're on the side of the Angels. You're Sherlock, and you're dead." He stood up. "I just came here to say good bye. I hope you won't come back because I can tell Mycroft about the recall code and, smart man like him, I'm sure he could realize the significance of what I am to you."

"But what can he do to you? Threaten your life?" Moriarty scoffed. "Not if he loves you."

"You called him the 'Iceman'." Lestrade inclined his head. "And I suppose you were right to." He remembered a terrible nightmare he had on the hills of Dartmoor. "And, I think somewhere deep inside me, I knew it, too."

"That was before I knew you had the power to change people."

"I loved you once, perhaps. He can't tolerate having such a liablity in such close quarters." Lestrade reasoned, shoving his hands in his pockets. While highly unprobable, Moriarty decided he couldn't afford to put it past the man.

"Then come with me?" Moriarty urged him. "We can go wherever we want, do whatever - simply -... _be_."

Lestrade pushed a hand through his hair again, causing his hair to stick up every which way. "Moriarty." he sighed. "Mycroft and I, we knew you'd approach me to get at Sherlock because I was the only one closest to him who didn't practically worship him or hate him." Lestrade shifted his weight. "But you were looking at the wrong Holmes. I love Mycroft." He swallowed. "But this, ... us. It was alright, wasn't it?" Having said his piece, he scuffed his shoe against the floor and moved toward the door.

Moriarty jumped up as Lestrade moved past him and grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around to press his lips against his. "I don't-... I have never once regretted us." Moriarty told him, pressing their foreheads together gently, noses brushing against each other. "Isn't it ironic? I frowned down on Sherlock because he didn't know a good thing - in you - until it was gone. But me, I've never been able to ignore it because I never really had you." he whispered, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Lestrade's cheek. "Good bye Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade nodded stiffly, plucking Moriarty's hand away from his face, rubbing his thumb briefly over the back of that warm hand before pulling away resolutely, making his way to the door.

"Oh, Lestrade?" Moriarty called after him softly. Lestrade stopped but didn't turn. "How did you know for certain that Jim Moriarty ever existed? I shook Mycroft's belief up a bit, Hell, Sherlock almost believed me for a moment when I met him as Richard Brook."

Lestrade resumed moving one foot forward, and then the other, taking hold of the doorknob and opening the door a few inches. Then he stopped and turned back. "Because you're real - you're so - _so_ real." he said, painfully confident. "Because I don't think that what we had could be fabricated, not by Sherlock, at any rate, can you imagine?" he chuckled a little, then looked Moriarty in the eye.

"Because Moriarty was real. And because I believe in Sherlock."

He smiled a little and walked out.

* * *

><p>AN: This is - technically - the end of the story, but there WILL be an epilogue!

Sorry it's such a long chapter! I couldn't find a break in the scene to separate it into two chapters! DX


	20. Chapter 20

Epilogue

_Bored. -SH_ Lestrade smiled a little at the message, vaguely wondering if Sherlock would appreciate a little jest in his stormy mood. He leaned against the cemetery gate and typed out a response.

_Not much I can do to help a dead man. -Lestrade_ He sighed and slipped his phone into his jacket pocket when he heard footsteps approaching him. He looked up. "Mrs. Hudson." he nodded.

Mrs. Hudson was clutching a handkerchief to her face. "Oh, hello dear. Sorry for all this..." She gestured to her dishevled state and sniffed into her handkercheif.

Lestrade shook his head. "Don't worry about it. If there's something I can do to help, don't hesitate to ask." he told her kindly.

They turned to see John limping toward them looking miserable but no worse for wear. The ex-army doctor and temporarily-ex-DI exchanged grim, tense nods of aknowledgement. John had not spoken to Lestrade and Mycroft since Sherlock's death and didn't seem to even want to. Understandable, considering the circumstances of his limited knowledge of the case.

"Sorry for making you wait." The lone tenant of 221b Baker Street said to his landlady. Mrs. Hudson patted his arm comfortingly and the two walked out of the cemetery together, consoling each other.

Lestrade's pocket chimed. _Sherlock? -MH_

Lestrade sighed. _Cemetery. I'll hunt him down. -Lestrade_

_Sherlock's train is leaving in ten minutes. -MH_

_Be right there. -Lestrade_

Lestrade looked up to see Sherlock stroll slowly out of the cemetery to meet him. "Come on, Sherlock, your train to Switzerland is almost due." he barked out gruffly, masking how upset he was about the whole situation but knowing he could do nothing about it.

"Bloody Mycroft." Sherlock huffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Switzerland! Nothing goes on in Switzerland!"

"His objective precisely." Lestrade snorted. "Well, we better get on before anyone thinks I'm talking to a ghost." He turned and clambered into his car, motioning for Sherlock to enter the other side.

They drove to the station in silence.

Sherlock sighed almost reluctantly as he dismounted but turned back and leaned over to speak to Lestrade. "Look after John and Mrs. Hudson." he said earnestly.

Lestrade nodded. "Only until you get back, okay?" John was still a fair bit upset at Mycroft and him and the world in general but Lestrade sincerely hoped he'd forgive them soon. One thing's for sure, they would probably never tell him about Lestrade's involvement with Moriarty, he'd brutally slaughter them before they could even make out the words 'Sherlock's alive'.

Sherlock nodded soberly and turned to leave. "Sherlock." Lestrade called after him, Sherlock turned back. "Thanks." Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion as to why Lestrade was thanking him. "For not using the recall code, I know you're not daft enough to have missed it." Sherlock just gave a cocky little smile, preening, and disappeared into the station with a swish of his coat.

Lestrade shifted gears and prepared to pull out into the traffic when his pocket buzzed. He pulled out his phone. _Hello sexy. -M_

Lestrade's breath hitched and his head jumped up swiveling. He barely caught sight of a Westwood suit melting into the crowds with a blonde trailing after him protectively. _Sherlock is alive. Clever boy. -M_

Lestrade stared for a minute or two but the texts stopped coming. _Oh, no._ He briefly wondered how he was going to explain this one to Mycroft.

He sighed and shifted gears again and pulled off the curb, he agreed to be at Mycroft's flat in an hour for their 'official reunion' as Mycroft had called it. A splash of yellow paint on brick wall caught his eye and he pulled over, clambering out of the car.

"Oi!" he barked, ever the copper. "Oi you!" The graffiti artist jumped guiltily at being caught in the act of defacing public property and pulled his cap lower over his face as he dashed away, dropping his can of paint. Lestrade broke out into a run, chasing him, until he saw the graffiti.

He skidded to a sudden stop, mouth falling open in shock.

_I believe in Sherlock._

Was spray painted boldly on the wall.

_Moriarty was rea_

About half an 'L' was missing from when Lestrade interrupted but the message was crystal clear. Lestrade stood staring at the drying paint for a moment or two before he peered down both ends of the ally to ensure his solitude. He picked up the fallen spray can.

_Moriarty __**IS **__real_

He proclaimed confidentally underneath the previous writings, capitalizing the 'IS', present participle.

_Moriarty is __**NOT**__ gone_

Lestrade bit his lip, lowering his arm an inch before hardening his gaze and continuing writing his message.

**_Moriarty is merely waiting._**

Satisfied at his own handiwork, Lestrade dropped the spray can and walked away.

The End

* * *

><p>AN: I hold the adamant belief that 'A story is only as good as its best villain'. BBC Sherlock cannot continue without our favorite, mad, criminal consultant! This last little bit of the story is just my contribution supporting many fans' same desperate hopes that Moriarty will make a comeback in the next season.


End file.
